


The Sounds and Howls of Whitby’s Barghest

by SugarQuill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Art, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Drugs, F/M, If I think of anymore tags I’ll add them, It’s not very good, Jealous!Harry, Lovers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mpreg, Not between Harry and Draco, PTSD, Passed Rape/Non-con, Rimming, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Thoughts of Suicide, auror!Harry, corset kink, kind of, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-04-27 13:59:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14426880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarQuill/pseuds/SugarQuill
Summary: When a mauled body is found upon the North Yorkshire moors, Harry Potter is assigned as lead Investigator. Not only does Harry discover that Draco Malfoy has recently moved to the nearby town, but he’s not exactly the same as Harry remembers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I originally wrote this fic three years ago but deleted it as I didn’t like the way it was written. (Like most of my fics.) So if it sounds familiar, that’s why. 
> 
> All the art is my own, whether I’ve edited photo’s or drawn freehand, the finished product is mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are property of J.k Rowling and publishers. No copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> Enjoy all x
> 
> — Annie

_It seems to have disappeared entirely from the town. It may be that it was frightened and made its way on to the moors, where it is still hiding in terror. There are some who look with dread on such a possibility, lest later on it should in itself become a danger, for it is evidently a fierce brute. Early this morning a large dog, a half-bred mastiff belonging to a coal merchant close to Tate Hill Pier, was found dead in the roadway opposite it's master's yard. It had been fighting, and manifestly had had a savage opponent, for its throat was torn away, and it's belly was slit open as if with a savage claw._ – Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

 

 

   Harry traces his fingers indolently across the faded page his book, the old, yellowing paper feeling rough and fibrous beneath his fingertips, like a sheet of industrial fibreglass before it’s pressed and brushed with resin. It flakes and causes shreds of compressed pulp to come loose and dust the thighs of Harry’s jeans, and a piece of dried skin on his index finger catches near the bottom half of the page, pulls back a small flap of skin, making it rip and bead with blood.

Harry sucks the digit into his mouth in an attempt to smooth the crack with his tongue, staring idly down at the now blurred, black lines laid out before him: the words having merged long ago.

In the distance, he can hear the crashing of surf into the nearby cliffs, can almost feel the spray collecting on the evening wind, and it makes the air around Harry’s hotel room fetid with the briny smell of salt and fish as it is pushed through the gap of his open window.

It’s after another minute of enjoying the tranquillity of Poseidon’s domain before he’s resetting the book back upon floral sheets—trying not to dog-ear anymore pages—then he rises to meander over to said open window, leaning low over the cushioned window seat and splaying his hands on the white-glossed ledge.

A glance to his left shows a seascape of charcoal waves stretching out and coalescing with the darkening sky, still streaked in hues of rose, and two stark silhouettes of an old, disused lighthouse and walkway, both obscuring a quiet harbour; the lighthouse’s existence still known to seafarers by a red beacon of warning fixed upon it’s roof. Straight ahead, in the near distance, there’s the gothic ruins of Whitby Abbey and small church and graveyard before it, their shadows distinct and eerie against the crimson flushed sky. Harry can see the unwholesome allure that the ruins exude, understands why so many come to appease their morbid fascinations with death and the mythological romanticism surrounding it. He can see the peace and humility in walking the dirt paths between each gravestone and ruin, remembering that no matter the choices you make in life or the paths you choose to take, death comes for us all, at one point or another, and leads us back to the earth.

Harry wonders if a wizard’s magic is absorbed back into the earth when they die, wonders if that’s why earth magic is one of the rawest, most powerful forms of magic you can wield. He’s only ever attempted earth magic once, back when he’d found a tome on necromancy in the Black family library at Grimmauld Place. He’d only meant to open the veil and see Sirius, ask if he was alright—well, as alright as the dead can be—but what he’d gotten instead was the unwelcome apparition of Walburga Black—who had emerged shrieking from her God forsaken portrait.

For a week Harry’d had to endure Bloodist slurs following him around the house, even to the bathroom, and had had to put up with moving furniture and locking doors, his shower running too hot or too cold, or flooding the en suite and ruining his bedroom carpet. On one afternoon when he’d returned home, exhausted from Auror training, his sofa had even tried to eat him, pulling him back into the plush cushions until they’d covered his face and he couldn’t breath. That had been the last straw, well and truly. But it’d taken another three days before Harry’d figured out how to get rid of the old hag. In the end, he’d had to _Avada Kedavra_ her portrait straight off the wall and burn it during a rather lengthy cleansing ritual. On the plus side though, Grimmauld Place seems a little more cheerier in Harry’s opinion.

He runs an even hand through his hair as he chuckles, remembering the outraged screams of Sirius’ mother as she’d faded away and the wailing cries of Kreacher as he’d sobbed in the back doorway, and his finger snags on a knot in his fringe, tightening it as it refuses to loosen, even as he tugs. Harry huffs and pulls his fingers free completely, leaning back on the window ledge.

Below him, the main road of West cliff is unusually free of traffic. Only a couple of cars are parked along the roadside, probably belonging to some of the hotel staff or guests, and across the way the Whalebone Arch’s usually whitewashed appearance is bathed in a honey hue thanks to the golden lights of the lampposts dotted along the street. The sun hasn't quite set yet, but already the lights surrounding the town of Whitby have begun to chase away any unwelcome darkness. An oddity, Harry is sure, that has continued on since the abhorrent days of the early 19th century.

This place is shrouded in history and folklore, and Harry had found it fascinating when he'd read through the case file that had landed on his desk Thursday morning; he’d headed straight down into the Ministry’s archives and pulled up old documents and articles—some dating back to the 12th century—depicting all sorts of unusual and arcane events that had warranted Ministry intervention, including the clearance of an infestation of Hobs at 109 Church Street.

The most notable, and relevant occurrence, however—the one that Harry had been the most interested in—was an esoteric ‘incident’ in 1890 that had to be concealed from Muggles in the form of a well orchestrated, mass Obliviation. Within that folder Harry’d found references to Abraham Stoker and, at the time, had obtusely wondered why a Muggle novelist had been documented as a key witness instead of being Obliviated along with the rest. It was only after a brief query with Rigel Rutherford (archive director) that Harry had discovered that Bram was not only a Wizard but that the 1890 ‘incident’ was Bram’s inspiration for the renowned gothic horror novel Dracula.

Harry snorts at his own naïvety; thirteen years in the wizarding world and he’s _still_ learning. He sighs, bracing his arms across the window ledge to get more comfortable. The window seat edge digs into his thighs as he shifts but he pays no heed, simply shuts his eyes against the sharp breeze that tussles his long fringe aside, revealing his infamous lightning bolt scar.

Salt in the air grits into his skin, stings slightly, and for a suspended moment Harry fears that his now dormant cicatrix is active again. He chuckles at the absurdity; it hasn’t hurt once in the last five years since Voldemort’s demise, yet it's presence still hangs heavily over him like a suffocating smog. The pathetic blemish is a curse all on its own, a foreshadow that he’ll never have a simple life or a happy one, he knows. It’s a reminder of the darkness after the final battle, of the nightmares he couldn't escape from, of the arguments he couldn't let go of—the people he's lost.

He is tainted thanks to the horrors he’s faced, and sometimes he wonders whether some part of him got left behind in the forest that day. Or whether something had latched onto him at King’s Cross Station and hitched a ride back, marring his heart and sucking away all forms of emotion, leaving him empty. Disassociation the Mind Healers called it, and it had taken several different specialists two years to diagnose it as such. Harry hadn’t particularly cared about the names of what was wrong with him, he’d just wanted help.

Harry shifts to run a hand over his mouth, lets it linger there. Three years after Sirius' death he’d finally begun to mourn the loss. It’d hit him suddenly, seemingly out of no where on a Saturday afternoon when he was rinsing his favourite ‘Accio Coffee’ mug. And at the time, Harry hadn’t recognised it for what it was, he was just so overcome with longing and remorse for all the words left unsaid between him and his Godfather that he’d felt unreasonably panicked with anger and guilt. He’d had this frantic need to just have the impossible: a simple thing as having Sirius clap him on the back and say, “everything is going to be ok, Pup.”

Harry’d hated the universe right at that moment, had cursed it for it’s unfair cruelty, for taking what could have been and of what should have been, of not granting one simple wish to a grieving boy. A gaping hole bloomed in his chest that night, longing to be filled with love and happier memories before everything had gone to shit. It was too much—on that dreary Saturday night, it was simply too much.

In psychogenic hysteria, and delirium from a bottle of Ogden’s Old, Harry took his red Diablo out of London and pushed it to full throttle going up the M1; over revving the engine even though he was in 5th, his dash dial paused at 200mph even as he pressed harder on the accelerator. He’d just wanted to get away, be free from the darkness growing in his chest—but it was futile. He made it somewhere near the outskirts of Northampton, Rob Zombie’s Dragula (Hot Rod Herman Remix) playing full blast, before the rain logged road caused him to lose control, had caused the overpowered back end to flick out and make the car slide horizontally for at least 50 metres before Harry’s harsh foot on the break and wheel caused the car to finally flip.

It took him two days to wake up in St Mungo’s, and whilst there he’d been praised (again) for his overwhelming magical ability to survive; apparently he had unconsciously conjured a powerful variation of _Protego_ just before his car had impacted with a concrete barrier, Hermione had said. It could have been worse, in Harry’s opinion, if he had found that necromancer book back then.  
  
Fortunately, when back at Grimmauld Place, his nightmares resurfaced and consumed most of his life. He’d wake up most nights, drenched in sweat, to the memory of his mother’s screams. And unable to get back to sleep, he’d wander down to the kitchen for a glass (or two) of Elven wine—to make it easier to relax enough for sleep, he’d tell himself. And he’d usually find Kreacher there meandering about in the pantry or near the stove, mumbling some such bollocks under his breath, and the sight of him would remind Harry of Dobby, of Regulus, and, consequently, of Sirius.

On those nights, Harry’d stay sat at the overly large kitchen table and drank glass after glass of wine, moving on to whiskey around 5am, telling Kreacher to “fuck off” every time the elf would try and badger Harry into going to bed. He’d stay and cry silently into his tumbler, head in his hand as he slumped drunkenly across the table, the grains of wood coming into focus and then out, wondering whether he'd get to hold his family again if he died—the kind where there was no coming back.

It would be so easy to just end his anguish, Harry thinks. And he hates that, hates that he can feel that way so readily.

Worse still, it occurred to him one day, months after the ‘accident’ as Ron and Hermione had deemed it, that he had no living family left (excluding the Dursleys, of course, who Harry pretended didn't exist after the hardship they'd caused him.) And even though the Weasleys accepted Harry as a son and brother, he’d never felt that he truly belonged; he loved them as they loved him, but they just didn’t feel like his family—they were the Weasleys, and he was a Potter; the last Potter.

He thinks that was why he’d suggested settling down to start a family with Ginny straight out of school. It was vacuous, looking back, and Ginny had point blank refused right out, declaring, "I’m only 18, Harry. I've only just come of age and I've got the opportunity of a lifetime with this training. I'm not ready to settle down. Will you wait for me?”

Foolishly, Harry had agreed. He’d waited for a further two years, by which time he was halfway through his Auror training and Ginny had finished her apprenticeship and accepted a permanent place with the Madrid Mosquitoes. Unsurprisingly, they’d hardly spent any time together, what with Ginny living all the way across the Channel and Harry busy sitting alone at Grimmauld Place with his bottles of alcohol.

He had visited her a few times when he could, of course, but he had felt just as lonely with her, even when they slept together. The last time they’d had sex, Harry had just lain there in the scrambled sheets, his eyes shut; the thrusting movement above him was enough to keep his erection from flagging, but he'd felt nothing. Still, he’d indulged her by waiting for her to slowly stop moving and cry out his name, keeping his eyes shut and trying to find arousal in the feel of her juices smearing into his pubic hair, dribbling down his balls and inner thighs—but he'd felt nothing, absolutely nothing.

“You haven't come... Do—do you want me to finish you off?” Ginny’d looked so confused and innocent as she’d stared down at him, which was ironic considering what they’d just done.

Harry’d opened his eyes to see her looking slightly offended too, even more so when he shook his head. She’d stared into his absent green eyes for a long moment, noting that there was no sentiment there, and slid off his withering cock to sit on the edge of the bed. With a slight frown she’d said, “I think we should talk Harry,” before looking over her shoulder at him still laid there staring at the ceiling.

That night she'd cried as she’d said, “it’s over” and “it’s for the best,” that she hoped Harry could find what, or who, he was looking for. Not likely, Harry had thought. And not that he even cared...

A knock at the door banishes Harry’s reverie. He turns towards it somewhat before, with a heavy exhale, he reaches to pull the window shut, slamming it and twisting the metal scroll on the frame to lock it. He bends to tighten the tanned leather strap on his thigh holster, placing his wand securely in it. Another final huff and he moves towards the door, finding Dean Thomas on the other side of it looking impatient and only slightly jaded.

“Took you long enough,” the dark skinned man says with a grunt, his voice deeper now than it was during the final years of Hogwarts, and he turns to walk down the hall, his bulky, Auror standard boots thudding dully against the carpet.

Harry makes sure his room door is shut and secure—trying the handle twice—before following after him, his own heavy boots scuffing in rhythm with the thuds coming from Dean’s.

They descend the communal staircase in silence, entering a small reception area where Dean nods to a busty brunette behind the front desk. She blushes beautifully, averting her gaze back to her computer screen, but not quite hiding a pleased smile. Harry raises an eyebrow at the exchange but says nothing as he and Dean push through the double doors to exit on to East Terrace.

Outside, the air is crisp, cool, and Harry can taste the surf on his chapped lips, salty and sour. His team is already waiting for him across the street, jacket collars pulled up around their necks to try and fight the bitter breeze.

Harry nods to Dean, who has stopped beside him in the middle of the deserted road, hands in his trouser pockets, awaiting instruction, and gestures for him to join the other three awaiting Aurors. Dean moves to stand before a bench that Terry Boot and Blaise Zabini are sat upon: Terry reading a leaflet that Harry has seen on a table in the hotel entrance hall, Zabini slouched with his legs stretched out and laughing along with Seamus Finnigan, probably about something that happened at last night’s pub crawl before they all port-keyed up here. Harry wouldn't know, though, he's only been four times in the whole three years it's been a tradition. It’s not something he’s interested in—socialising. He tends to get irate too easily and that doesn’t provide a good foundation for social interaction, he’s found.

As he approaches the group he notices that Seamus is bouncing his left foot against the front slat of the bench, and Harry grits his teeth together in exasperation as creaks of wood carry periodically across the small lea. He digs his nails into the palms of his hands in an attempt to try and quell his irritation. It’s then that Zabini notices Harry; he twists and jumps up to kneel against the bench, draping his arms across the back as he seems to study Harry as he nears.

“Come on Boss for Merlin's sake!” He shouts acerbically across the green, causing the other three Aurors to turn.

Harry frowns but nods at the group as he rounds to stand before them all, stuffing his hands into his jean’s pockets and widening his stance.

"Right—er, from what I've gathered in the reports from Robards, it's some sort of Canis we're after.” He ignores Zabini’s supercilious grin as the man moves to slump back down on the bench and face him properly. “Could be a werewolf. But, er—although, the body they found last week was obviously mauled outside of the full moon,” Harry mutters mostly to himself; he feels sick remembering the crime scene photos from the latest attack. Fortunately, or unfortunately, they’d been Muggle shots so they hadn't shown the true extent of blood still dripping from the victim's neck, her jugular shredded and exposed through the ripped skin of her throat.

“Hmm.” Zabini crosses his legs so that his foot brushes the inside of Harry’s calf and crosses his arms. “The muggle victim was so fucked up and eaten they couldn't determine an identification, could they?” He smirks when Harry takes a step back, brows knitting further. “Can't see regular old Clifford or Rover doing that.”

“Exactly, so I'm thinking werewolf,” Boot comments, folding his leaflet into his jacket pocket. “Which means it's pointless being here, why don't we come back in eight days—“

“Because we need to memorise and analyse our surroundings if this whole place is to be our hunting ground,” Harry huffs. He isn't having anyone weasel out of duty, not when he needs this case; the nightmares have started up again and he hasn't been able to draw his mind away from the Buck-Hunter knife nestled in his duffle bag upstairs. He needs the distraction. “Now let's split up and survey the area like we were deployed to.” He looks pointedly at Boot, who shifts uncomfortably.“And, er, look for tracks, magical abnormalities, disruptions, the usual.”

Harry’s eyes roam over the group. “Any questions?”

Seamus raises his hand. "Yeah. Why ‘as the Ministry sent five of us on an evidence scout?”

Harry sighs. “Well—“

“Because this is a high profile case and Robards want’s to see Potter here lead a team successfully and prove his worth before becoming the next Head Auror,” Zabini interrupts, regarding Harry with a contemptuous expression, a glint of teeth shining in the lamplight as he sneers. He widens his arms across the back of the bench and lounges back as though he’s on fucking holiday.

Harry’s nostrils flare and he hardens his stare as he faces Zabini more bodily.

"I won't be the next Head Auror," he corrects lowly. "But you're right, this is high profile. The Ministry is worried there may be a repeat performance of the events that happened back in 1890. It started out just the same, with animal attacks, after all."

Zabini snorts but makes no further comment, already standing and striding away, his Cuban heels clipping rhythmically against the road’s tarmac. The rest of the group slowly disperses too: Dean and Seamus heading along Cleveland Way and Boot making his way down a set of steep steps towards Khyber Pass.

Harry stays rooted to the spot as he follows the retreating figure that is Blaise Zabini wandering further down East Terrace. He wonders what’s got the former Slytherin in such a snit; he’s usually quite agreeable to Harry’s ideas and instincts, not cynical and sarcastic. Despite the Ministry’s culpability in most things and their blatant misconjecture, Harry knows that they have every right to feel nervous about a link between this case and that in 1890 after reading what he had in the archives.

It's common knowledge within the Wizarding world that Bram Stoker was a Muggleborn who lived within the Muggle world due to his ongoing interest with it’s culture and growing technology. What most didn’t know, however, was that he also worked as a Ministry philosopher within the Department of Mysteries and that his wife, Florence, was part of the Wizengamot.

Harry discovered that during Bram’s visit to Whitby in 1890, he was pulled into a local investigation that centred around the discovery of various mutilated animals being left around the grounds of Chole Manor. Bram reported that they had been strategically placed around the moors and gardens, with one Leporidae being tied to the front doors by its entrails. He sent the report of his unease to the Ministry and within five days a team of three Aurors had been dispatched to the small fishing village with the assumption that these strange occurrences were somehow connected to the supernatural world they were trying desperately to keep hidden.

The following day, while the Aurors conversed ideas with Bram over breakfast in his cliff hotel, they revealed that they had recently been to a horrific scene aboard an abandoned cargo ship further down the coast, near Flamborough Head. They spoke about how all sixteen crew members had been murdered and left with various body parts missing, their blood drained and their gold gone. It was with this knowledge that Bram suggested they were dealing with a vampire and that the animals being scattered around the moors surrounding Chole Manor were ‘gifts.’

His suspicions were confirmed on a Monday, he wrote in his statement, when the Mayor of Whitby had asked for his assistance—believing Bram to be a doctor—with his daughter, Charlotte. She had been acting peculiar, said the Mayor, and that she had a high fever and waxy complexion. Bram had immediately attended and, once examined, it was obvious to him that Charlotte was victim to the vampire; they’d already started her conversion to vampirism due to two small incisions on her wrist.

Further in the notes Harry had read, Bram wrote that he had tried to give Charlotte blood transfusions, to flush out the infection, but it was unsuccessful. He also wrote that he had had to give the Muggle Mayor and Chief constable a false name, a name of Bram Helsing (which Harry had chuckled at) and that he became mediator between the Muggle police and the Aurors.

It wasn’t until July 16th that the vampire finally revealed himself, presenting himself as Hans Muller just after having murdered the town’s Mayor and hanging him up from the bracing arches of Chorley House upon East cliff. He had called out Bram as a challenger—due to his futile attempts to help Charlotte—misspeaking his name as Van Helsing, and insisted that they duel right there and then upon the moors. He hadn’t, however, anticipated the many Aurors that had slowly started to circle him whilst he’d preened. And, in a fit of resigned rage, he’d jumped and shape-shifted into a giant, black dog, disappearing up onto the moors in a great blur.

It was another couple of days before more animal carcasses were found, and Bram was beside himself with anger and guilt over being unable to save Charlotte, stating that he sat beside her bed with a wooden spear, watching the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.

On July 22nd Bram stated that he’d managed to create a serum that would allow Charlotte to die peacefully and unturned if Hans made another attempt to get her (there had been four attempts since the 16th) and he injected her with it that same night. Then, sometime around 3am Bram supposed—he and the Auror on watch had fallen asleep—he awoke to discover Charlotte missing. They raised the alarm immediately and went in search; they found her on the morning of July 23rd up on the marshland near Whitby Abbey, her clothes gone and her skin cut in animalistic swipes. There wasn’t much blood, Bram had noted, which indicated that Hans had tried to turn her completely (like Bram had suspected) and she had died peacefully due to the serum he’d created. But then—probably upon discovering Bram’s deceit—Hans had taken his frustration out on the body afterwards—it’s only a small blessing that she was already gone.

In the nights following Charlotte’s death, the team of Aurors, and Bram, were subjected to numerous attacks and mental torture as Hans tried to foul their minds with depraved illusions: one Auror lost his arm and another his eye.

It wasn’t until early August before the beast was finally apprehended—and it had taken a team of twelve men, Bram included, to trap and secure him. And, unwilling to take him back to the Ministry cells, they were authorised to dispose of him with the ritual of Strigoi (something else Harry had never heard of.) So, on the morning of August 2nd, they nailed Hans to a wooden plank soaked in Holy Water using silver nails and dragged him up onto the sacred grounds of the Abbey. Then, as the sun rose, they burned him; flakes of ash charring and beginning to upsurge and dance within the sea breeze as Bram’s final word carried across the plane, _“Iertare.”_

 

†††

 

   Harry finds himself walking along New Quay Rd, alongside the River Esk. He’s just passed the tourist information point on Langbourne Rd, and the tiny fishing boats lined along the walkway are bumping together and against the concrete barricade, grinding their wooden hulls in a teeth clenching squeak. Their nets and ropes scratching along the boats’ sides as they sway in the water’s current. Across the street is heaving with bodies falling in and out of The Angel Inn pub, a pounding bass emanating over the rumble of shouts and chatter as people move from club to pub to club.

It's a Friday night, around 10:30 pm, and even with the biting breeze, the harbour is packed. Harry worries that he won’t be able to do what he needs to (it’s not like he can pull his wand out in a crowd full of Muggles) and he can only hope that the old town is quieter, less dense.

He steals himself to emerge from the shadows he’s subconsciously skulked into, glad that he'd decided to wear the nicer of his civilian clothes: faded Henley’s, plain white shirt and dark leather jacket, nothing fancy.

He takes a deep breath and exits the shadows, manoeuvres his way towards the wood and tarmac swing bridge, pausing as a group of girls fall into his path. They cling to each other, singing out of tune to Summer Jam, clutch bags and bottles of Smirnoff Ice raised in the air. Harry smiles at them when they turn to apologise in a fit of giggles, giving them a polite nod as he side steps their groping hands. He leaves the drunken group laughing behind him and strolls further around the bay, hands in his pockets.

The swing bridge is right before him now, and water laps at the thick wooden stoops that anchor the bridge in place. The music over here is less pounding and more acoustic. Harry’s pretty sure that that’s Oasis’ Supersonic belting out from The Golden Lion.

He glances over at the small pub, sees the bistro style tables and chairs outside filled with patrons jovially singing and catches the lyrics, _“I know a girl called Elsa, She's into Alka Seltzer. She sniffs it through a cane on a supersonic train...”_

Harry grins, he knew it. He turns to make his way across the swing bridge, tugging up the collar of his jacket as it’s cooler here with no buildings to help block the wind, when he makes out a familiar figure strolling down St Ann’s Staith, Cuban heels clicking against the paved walkway.

Blaise Zabini saunters elegantly along the barricade, also adjusting the collar of his Italian made coat. Harry assumes he's come from the back streets where the Magpie Cafe resides on Pier Road and is now ready to investigate the main shopping district just past NatWest Bank. There shouldn’t be any need to intervene, to ask for an update on his progress. They’re only familiarising themselves with the area after all, checking for magical abnormalities, and assumes Zabini will continue on up Baxtergate.

It’s a surprise when Zabini doesn’t, that he pauses at the end of the walkway and then swiftly enters The Golden Lion; pushing passed a couple in the doorway and appraising the young woman with long, blonde hair as she exits with her partner.

The air around Harry suddenly feels charged and prickly, causing his skin to break out in goose-pimples and the hairs on his arms to stand up on end, catching on the lining of his jacket. He tells himself he should charge over there and demand to know what the hell Zabini thinks he’s doing. But a glance at his watch shows that it’s after 11 pm now, and that is the time they’re officially off duty.

Gritting his teeth, Harry spins on his heel and stomps angrily away. He doesn’t have the luxury of calling it a night; he’d spent so much time up near the mariner that he’s behind schedule and still needs to analyse the magical flux, if any, in the old town.

He strolls passed the closed rock and sweet shop and chippie on Bridge street before turning left to go up Church, tripping on a loose cobble. The street is narrow, cobbled and paved, with tall buildings towering over him at each side—some painted and others not—with hanging signs or flower baskets, brass lamps illuminating them.

Most of the display windows are large and wooden framed, coupled with ornate pillars on either side to distinguish each shop. The doors are all solid wood, too, with knobs instead of handles, no shutters for security, and each has their own bottle glass window—the swirl distorted and discoloured in places.

A pub on Harry’s right looks dark and deserted, considering the hour, and the old service alley beside it smells of stale ale and urine, ruining the aesthetic of the rest of the street. He moves on, admiring a café with bayed, checkered windows that reminds him heavily of the shops on Diagon Alley, before coming to a slow stop within the town square—under the stone pillars that make up the old town hall. It’s pretty quiet this side of the river, even with it’s few pubs, and the only people he sees are a group of seven that, if Harry’s heard correctly, are on a ghost walk tour.

Harry watches cautiously from the shadows under the town hall as the tour conductor articulates an elaborate tale of murder and mayhem involving a brothel and a jealous madam who’d fancied the local vicar, the small gathering laughing as he points to an upper window of a shop where the madam was said to have done her business.

They move on as the tour guide points out an alley where the madam had had the vicar shot and hung up to display what happens when she is displeased, and Harry shivers as he steps out of his hiding place, taking extra care to ensure that he’s alone this time.

He glances at the alley, wondering if the tale is true as he frees his wand from it's concealed confinement on his thigh. It very well could be if it’s from the 18th century, Harry thinks, checking the area again to see if the coast is clear (he’s not about to break the Statute of Secrecy) and contemplates casting a blood reveal charm that they use at crime scenes; like Luminol, it illuminates traces of blood by reacting with the iron, even when it’s been cleaned away and can’t be seen with the naked eye. That’s stupid though, Harry chastises himself. Even if there had been a crime, after 200 years there wouldn’t be any evidence left now.

He mentally slaps himself and turns back to the task he’d originally started, casting a whispered _Facti Revelio_ —not at anything in particular, just to the area in general—and observes as the entire square and surrounding buildings become engulfed in a light blue mist. It swirls and contorts until slowly, a bright, electric blue begins to appear along the main walkways and paths, deep black weeping from the centre of it until it is completely engulfed.

Harry curses under his breath but is unsurprised by the findings that whatever, or whoever, has travelled along these streets has a very dark magical core, one that he doesn’t recognise the signature of. He frowns and ends the spell with another flick of his wand. The mist clears as quickly as it had come and he pulls out a small piece of parchment from his inner pocket, murmuring a brief account of his findings so he can go over them later and make a more substantial report.

                             

The sound of rolling waves lapping onto shore suddenly attracts Harry’s attention. He knows there’s a beach just beyond the town square he stands in, one you can only get to when the tide is out.

Curiosity gets the better of him and he advances down a narrow gutter that is covered by a brick arch, stepping over an old grate and avoiding a dripping pipe that has some sort of green plant growing out of it. Almost immediately, he’s hit with a strong gust of wind that knocks him backwards when he comes out the other end. It throws salt and grit into his face, his eyes not even protected by his glasses, and he has to turn away, using all of his will power to not rub at his eyes. He should probably turn back, go back to the hotel and take his potions before bed—they’ll settle him enough for sleep, he’s sure. But as another wave echoes around the bay behind him he suddenly doesn’t want to do anything else, like he’s being drawn towards the sea, and, not for the first time, Harry wonders if there’s a Siren hidden out there in the waters.

The waves are rhythmic, shallow considering the wind, and sound like, to Harry, the opening to Champagne Supernova, and the thought brings him comfort as he recalls Sirius playing it at Grimmauld Place. It had been so out of character for his godfather who, Harry knew, had grown up with 70s rock: The Clash, Ramones, Black Sabbath. He’s seen Sirius’ record collection and band T-shirts; Harry often wears most of them, his favourite being an early, signed, Sex Pistols shirt.

Another crash and echo resounds behind Harry and his mind is made up. He fumbles for his wand, casts a hasty shield charm from the wind, and strolls along the paved barricade with purpose.

Luck is on his side it seems as the tide is receding and the small beach is deserted, nothing but a stretch of pebbled shingle and sand, some minute puddles further out to shore. The waves are frothy and dark, pushing up onto the beach and shoving long pieces of seaweed back and forth as they’re caught on various rocks.

Harry sits down with a sigh in the rough, shingle sand, stares out into the black void that is night and sea, the arse of his jeans slowly soaking up the left over damp from high tide, his hands stinging with the feel of sand and salt where he absently claws at the sea logged earth. There are no lights along the horizon tonight, no stars scattered across the heavens. No life, no presence, just the sound of rippling waves as they creep ever further away with the tide. It feels peaceful, tranquil, calm. It’s a place where you can come to think, come to be alone where no one can judge you because they’re not there to see you. You could reveal your deepest secrets and let them be taken away by the wind and shore, and no one would be the wiser. You could walk out into the water until it was up to your chest and kick out to swim adrift, keep going until you were caught in the current, and no one would help you because they wouldn’t know, wouldn’t see…

Harry stares as a rather large wave crawls up the shore and spills into a sunken hole behind a cluster of stones, filling it up in a water whirl of froth, before retreating. He pulls his knees against his chest, boot heels dragging in the sand, and wraps his arms tightly around them as he rocks back and forth slightly. He hadn’t known he was cold, not until he’d felt a treacherous tear drip down his cheek and cause him to shiver, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and goose-pimples to break out so bad he can feel them prickling his skull.

He looks around, thinks about the journey back to the hotel and how long it would take him. He can't stomach the thought of being in this mood whilst walking all the way back.

With a quick wipe of his eyes with the back of his hand, Harry stands and stumbles on the uneven ground as his boots sink into the shingle.

Growing ever more agitated, he rips his wand free in a frantic tug, the leather strap tearing somewhat in his hast. And, not bothering to check whether anyone can see him, he raises it above his head in a shaky grip, his chest beginning to burn now that he’s panting like a poisoned Crup.

After a muttered incantation, he disappears with a sharp, echoing pop, leaving behind a trail of boot prints.

 

†††

 

   Harry tugs at his hair, the knotted mess fisted between both hands as he cradles his head. He’s rocking back and forth before the foot of his bed, the curve of his spine slamming into the divan on every backwards thrust.

It's been over an hour since he'd drunken his medi-cocktail of potions but the heavy feeling pressing on his chest hasn't lifted.

He can't breathe, he feels as if can't _breathe._

He opens his mouth in a futile attempt to suck in air, gasping like a dying fish, but it hurts his lungs and burns the back of his throat, his mouth feels dry, even as his face feels clammy. Sweat trickles down his temples, down the back of his neck so that his shirt collar becomes stained and damp. He knows that sometimes the potions don’t work the way they’re promised to, and tonight appears to be one of those nights.

So, as another trail of sweat drips down his back, Harry scrambles pell-mell to his feet and casts frantic, wide eyes around the room, feeling desperate for some sort of outlet.

Then he remembers—curses himself for his own mindlessness—and hastily throws himself onto the carpeted floor beside his bed, yanking open the bedside cabinet door so it slams against the bed, and drags out his duffle bag.

How foolish that he’d forgotten he’d packed his black box; it’s something he cherishes more than his whiskey. Another surprise that he’d come across in Sirius’ old room.

He rummages through the bag, pulling out some rolled up mismatched socks and boxers, nicking his finger on the Buck-Hunter knife that he hasn’t folded away properly, and gingerly lifts out his black box, blood smearing onto the underside thanks to his now cut finger. He sucks the bloody thing into his mouth as he flings his almost empty duffle bag away, not a care in the world as to where it lands, and kicks at the pile of clothes he’s pulled out so that he has some clear space for his box and it’s contents.

Belatedly, he pulls his finger free and crosses his legs, placing the small black box just before him on the carpet and takes out some white papers and card.

Using his index and middle fingers he grasps both ends of a paper and folds it into a V before resting the paper on the carpet. He tears and rolls up a small piece of thin card to place at the end, then tentatively sprinkles brown and green herb within the centrefold. Carefully, he picks the full paper back up and lightly licks the side, attempts to roll it so non of the herb falls out and taps it at the end to make sure it’s secure.

Harry repeats the process three more times before he’s satisfied he’s made enough.

He replaces the left overs back into his box and hides it back in the bedside cabinet, then pushes himself up to stroll over to the window. There’s something missing though, he realises, and glances at the small plasma Tv sat adjacent to the bed. He grins and uses the remote to switch the Tv on and then to AV—turning the volume up passed 25–before realising he’ll need to cast some sort of silencing charm if he doesn’t want to deal with some rather irate Muggles.

A wave of his wand around the room and a strong _Muffliato_ later, and he’s charming the Tv to play a home burned CD in his player back at Grimmauld Place; a neat little incantation he’s learned from a book of shadows—as it were—written by The Marauders but modified by Hermione.

Glorious sound begins to stream through the speakers, crackling at first before the charm stabilises.

Then the TV settles into playing Track 1 as Harry gradually increases the volume, so much so that the window pane begins to vibrate. But that's good, he thinks, it’ll drown out the already pounding beat in his chest. He’s only satisfied it’s loud enough to wake the dead across the way in St.Mary's graveyard when the high volume starts to hurt his ears.

_“You're such an inspiration for the ways, that I will never ever choose to be. Oh, so many ways for me to show you, how your saviour has abandoned you.”_

Harry shuffles over to the window and slumps down onto the cushioned seat. Rests his exiguous spliffs on the ledge and flings open the creaky window pane with more vigour than he’d intended. It flys open wider than he’d wanted (he’ll probably have to spell it closed later as he won’t be able to reach) but hey-ho, the cold night air is a welcome solace after the stifling heat of the room. He ignites one of the spliffs using the tip of his wand, sucks and inhales with a contented sigh as he leans back against the wide window frame, pulls up a leg so that he's half leant out.

_“Your Lord, your Christ, took all you had and—still you pray, never stray, never. Never thought to question why.”_

Harry’s loved this remix since he’d heard it on a film he’d been to see last week—it had taken him an era to find the track and burn it.

He does have the original acoustic version somewhere too, but he prefers this one, prefers the bass in it and the raw assiduity of tribulation.

“It's not like you killed someone. It's not like you drove a hateful spear into his side. Praise the one who left you broken down and paralysed. He did it all for you—!” Harry screams, the veins on the side of his neck pulsating and bare, his muscles contorting with the strain. He laughs neurotically to himself, watching the cream swirls that he exhales happily dance in the early morning wind, thunks his head back to blow smoke up towards the sky.

_“Oh, so many ways for me to show you, how your dogma has abandoned you. Pray! To your Christ, to your God. Never taste of the fruit. Never stray, never break, never—choke on a lie! Even though he's the one who, did this to you, you never thought to question why.”_

Harry lights his second smoke, flicking the butt of his first out and onto the street below. He adjusts himself on the seat and shoves himself up, dangles his raised leg out of the window frame so that he’s now straddling the outer ledge. His boot scrapes against the stone face of the hotel.

_“It's not like you killed someone. It's not like you drove a spiteful spear into his side. Talk to Jesus Christ as if he knows the reasons why. He did it all for you—!"_

Wind catches on an superfluous droplet as it slides freely down Harry’s cheek, drying it into a crystalline streak as he lifts his spliff up to chapped lips. The paper around the rolled card sticks to his bottom lip when he pulls the spliff away, so he licks his tongue over it to help ease the way. Dawn is about to break upon the horizon near East cliff; a grey haze splitting the still jet sea from the dark sky over West, and Harry exhales quickly through his nose as he stubs out the end of his second smoke, dabbing it into the grooves of the window and marring a black dot into the white paint.

He glances briefly over his shoulder, to the shining metal knife just visible on the top of his scattered clothes, before swiftly looking back out of the window; none of that tonight, he thinks. Not when he’s out of the comfort of his own home.

He rolls the butt of his second spliff between his fingers, then sends it hurtling through the air to land on the green across the street. "Fuck your God!" He roars into the night air, laughing aberrantly whilst he lights up a third.

_"Your Lord, your Christ. He did this!"_

The familiar clench of loneliness creeps up his spine, claws into his stomach and makes him gip as he begins to extemporaneously tremble, and his manic laugh turns into a cry as he bawls, "Took all you had and left you this way! Still, you pray, never stray, never—never taste of the fruit. Never thought to question why!"

He fists his hair again, the small blunt crumbling in his fingers, but not before it singes his fringe, as a broken sob falls forth. And now he’s shaking with anger, deep, uncontrollable, and yells to the heavens, to the universe in general. "Fuck your God!" His boots kick into the wall, inside and outside, as he sends his middle finger towards the sky, then slumps back in a panting heap, his throat hoarse and his breaths uneven.

_“Fuck your God!”_

Harry lets the damaged spliff fall from his fingers with a slight grimace and an apt curse as a distant, muffled noise has him snapping his attention in the direction of the Whalebone Arch.

He watches as two figures ascend up the steps, walking arm in arm as they titter and giggle, shouldering each other and stumbling along the inclining path. Harry immediately recognises Zabini as the man on the right, the unmistakable clipping of his Cuban heels and the heavy sway of his Italian coat hard to miss, but Harry can't quite make out Zabini’s companion.

He swings his leg inside the window—to kneel on the window cushion—and casts a quick Notice-Me-Not charm, sits back on his calves. Lighting up the joint that he didn’t destroy, he watches Zabini grab his partner as they trip over a loose flag stone, watches them both laugh as Zabini props the man up against the lamppost directly across from Harry’s window.

Harry can now make out a golden-hued, blonde head on the other man. It’s a truly stark contrast when held next to Zabini’s dark chocolate, shorn locks, and Harry’s curiosity is peaked as he wonders who the other man is. He takes a long draw on his blunt while Zabini wedges himself between the blonde’s legs, the other man raising his knee to brace his booted sole on the widest part of the lamppost. His thigh is almost hooked over Zabini’s and a pale, thin arm moves up to drape itself over Zabini’s shoulder. Nothing is said for a moment, it’s just the sound of the subtle wind that resounds and whistles as it rushes passed the window where Harry sits; it’s like the pair are paused in time, two animals suddenly caught in the headlights of an on coming car and unable to move.

Harry slowly exhales. Then the serene instant is suddenly shattered—Zabini brutally shoves the blonde up against the lamppost, so violently that it causes the light it to flicker with the jostle, and presses himself more firmly against the pliant body beneath him. The blonde doesn’t seem to mind, however, as ivory arms snake around Zabini’s waist in a sedate embrace, and Zabini takes it as incentive to start rolling his hips, his hand moving to pull the blonde’s leg up and around his waist. He keeps his thrusts leisured and staid, a steady rut of hips against hips as he tilts his head and leans in for a kiss. But the other man turns his face away, to rest it in the crook of Zabini's neck and shoulder, and Harry smirks. How unfortunate, he muses, blowing and making a ring with his smoke, watching it disperse and fogging his view. He exhales heavily through his nose. He's still irritated; it’s just so easy for Zabini to charm everyone he meets with his bodacious attitude, taking advantage and attaining all he covets, and Harry can't even work up the effort to talk to most people, never mind seduce them. He can't remember the last time he's fucked anything other than his right hand. It must be at least 8 months, he reflects, maybe more. And isn’t that a just little sad.

Harry picks up his wand, adjusts the charmed Tv to skip to Track 8 and loses himself in the satiate bass of Joy to the World by Combichrist. He draws in another puff off his joint and lets the smoke escape his open mouth thereafter.

The cool morning air catches the dull cream swirls and expands them into etiolated clouds. They remind Harry of the mist like swirls he’d seen at King’s Cross Station those few years ago. The thought is oddly assuaging.

He sighs and adjusts himself on the window seat so he can lean back and unfold his numbed legs, pins and needles hitting almost immediately. _Merlin’s balls!_ Harry clenches his jaw as he endures the prickles that spread up from his feet to his thighs, circulation rushing back.

Down below, he overhears Zabini groan in recognisable pleasure, and Harry is unable to simply not look, can’t stop himself from leaning over the window ledge to witness Zabini still vehemently frotting against the blonde.

The flickering lambent of the lamppost has dimmed, casting heavy shadows across both bodies but Harry can still make out the overt show. That is, of course, until the blonde throws his head back in latent bliss and causes the light to dout completely.

Harry frowns, only a little disappointed, but then a whimper escapes the blonde, high pitched and effusive, and Harry can’t help but lean out more. Moonlight reflects off of the lenses of his glasses and the blonde’s menial whimpers turn into a full blown moan. At that, Harry sits back, can’t help but ponder if the blonde can see him now that his face is tipped back in direct line of Harry’s window. It would be unlikely with the Notice-Me-Not charm but something in the pit of Harry’s stomach is telling him that this, right now, is somehow portentous—yet he can’t explain why.

His imagination is unfairly running away with itself, expeditiously abusing him with visions of the blonde hooking his leg around Harry’s waist instead of Zabini’s; of pupils blown wide with pleasure and eyelids fluttering as they try to stay focused but losing; of a well kissed, pink mouth, open in a perfect O, panting shamelessly into Harry’s neck as they thrust in unison, both chasing their own completion.

Harry sighs, grasps his growing cock through his jeans and squeezes the length in a painful grip to stop it’s progress; he won’t be perverted enough as to sit here and wank while Zabini dry humps his latest toy. He savagely bites his bottom lip in an attempt to stay attentive.

“Oh, _fuck_ —“ Harry hears the blonde moan, and looks down to see the lucent moon over head shining off the blonde’s wide open eyes. He freezes, suddenly entrapped by the shimmering orbs staring back at him, hand still on his cock and heartbeat static in his own ears. He contemplates, once again, if the blonde can actually see him.

Impossible, he tells himself, relaxing back against the window’s frame and adjusting his cock so that his zip is no longer digging into the side of it.

But below him, the blonde moans again, a long, drawn out, salacious, _“fuck, yes,”_ that is hissed towards Harry’s window. And now Harry frowns as he hesitates to recast the Notice-Me-Not charm.

In the end, he simply picks up his forgotten blunt and relights it, saliently licking his lips, running the tip of his tongue over his top lip and then sucking his bottom one in between his teeth. He raises his spliff to his mouth and makes a show of sucking on the end, hollowing his cheeks and exhaling through his nose while he lets his free hand drop back to his crotch. The blonde is now moaning continuously, bounteous little whimpers drifting up for Harry to hear, and he takes them in charily, his gaze unwavering from the blonde’s not visible face as he slips his fingers into the waist band of his jeans. In mere seconds the blonde cries out in sated satisfaction, bowing over to lean against Zabini, who Harry had actually been able to ignore successfully for the last few minutes, and grips the lapels of his coat, alabaster skin stark against the dark wool.

Harry huffs in illogical disappointment, flicking the butt of his spliff onto the street and rising to stretch his legs and then arms, his shirt riding up his stomach and his spine popping in several places as he glances back out of the window; the coming horizon has the lower sky streaked in vivid reds and lucid purples. Harry pointedly ignores the allure to return to the open window and goes to take a slash before bed, his half hard cock having him wonder just what in Merlin’s name he’s just done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally here!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it x
> 
> Please give feedback if you have any thoughts, even if it’s negative and constructive, it’s all appreciated.
> 
> P.S Happy Beltane xx
> 
> —Annie x

   Harry awakes with a start. His eyes are sore with sleep and his retinas sting from the harsh midday sun that has somehow managed to glare directly onto his face through a small gab in the curtains. He turns over to retrieve his wand, casts a half-hearted Tempus and curses when it reveals he’s only had around four hours worth of sleep; after he’d calmed down late last night (or early this morning) Harry had wasted another two hours trying to compose a report and send it off for Robards. He’d tried to sound as sober and professional as possible—but he doesn’t think he achieved it when the only response he’d received was a short handed note of: _Go to bed, Inspector Potter._

So, with that order in mind, he had done—though with some reluctance—and had eventually dozed off an hour later, mentally listing points A.37 to C.12 of the Auror Safety Procedures for all Unseeable Circumstances, the other alternative being to allow his mind to drift back to Zabini’s promiscuous companion. And that didn’t bode well for Harry’s already unsettled mental stability, it really didn’t.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry huffs as he sits up, rubbing at his tired eyes and creased skin from sleep with both hands, leaning over to pick up his glasses from the night stand. The left hinge squeaks as he opens it and he mentally reminds himself (again) that he needs to take them for repairing. Or maybe a new pair, it has been years now since he’d last been to the opticians and they’d told him at the time that he would need regular visits—about every eighteen months or so. Apparently, having the wrong prescription for eleven years of your life isn’t good for your optical health.

Oh well, Harry shrugs, it’s just one more thing to add to the still ever growing list of things of what, and how, the Dursleys have well and truly fucked him over.

He flings the duvet back and swings his legs around to sit on the mattress’ edge. The carpet seems course under his bare feet. Not as plush as his own back at Grimmauld Place and it’s thread bare in places—particularly around the doorway and bathroom entrance. Harry wonders when it was the last time the hotel had been decorated, and concludes it was probably back when Stoker himself had stayed here. Though, that’s not really fair is it, Harry thinks. It’s a Grade two listed building—like most in the area—and they have to apply for planning permission from the Government before they can even so much as paint a door. Which, of course, is both costly and time consuming.

Harry huffs again, standing, pulls the crotch of his boxers from up underneath his balls and crack as he meanders over to the ensuite. The bathroom is wonderfully cool, shielded from the warm sun by a lack of windows, and the cold, smooth tiles beneath Harry’s feet are a welcome delight for his abused soles. There’s a large blister deep within his right heel. He can feel it throbbing every time he walks on it and he chastises himself for wearing his heavy boots without casting a cushioning charm first. He’ll have to wear his other shoes today, he sighs, filling the small bathroom sink with lukewarm water, grabbing a flannel from the bath’s side and throwing it in. He pours a generous amount of the hotel supplied soap onto the wet cloth and begins to scrub his face, arms and pits, rinsing it occasionally so he can do his chest and crotch.

Soap suds and water run in slow rivulets down his torso and back; down tanned, taut skin to the thatch of dark curls nestling his limp cock, then further—down his lightly hirsute thighs and calves, only stopping at his feet where they meet his discarded boxers; he’s using them as a mat.

By the time he’s finished, washed and dressed, and made his way down to the hotel restaurant for lunch, the staff are already clearing it away. Oh well, it’s of no detriment, Harry think’s as he takes his place in the only empty seat at the table full of Aurors—all still eating with their plates piled high.

They’re sat away from the main room and banquet table, half hidden in a cut out alcove just around the corner from the arched entrance to the dining area. Glasses of water and juice clank as they’re lifted and replaced onto the table, cutlery scraping against plates as the Aurors dig in to their feast, too engrossed in their patent conversations to even offer Harry a “Hello, and how’s you?”

Harry leans over the round table, careful not to disturb the cloth, and grabs a triangular slice of toast from the white, ceramic rack in the centre, stuffing it in his mouth and then searching in his breast pocket for the note he’s just received from Robards.

"Sure, I’m up for it if everyone else is,” Dean states to Harry’s left, cutting into a piece of melon and spearing it with his fork. “Though, are we even allowed?”

He glances covertly at Harry—though not covertly enough as Harry pretends not to notice, choosing instead to open the folded note from Robards and reading his recommendations.

They’re to stay observant—vigilant—but in holding until the magical trace that Harry has found can be analysed and cross referenced with all known criminals within the Ministry’s archives.

Harry already knows they won’t find a thing, but he won’t reply with that, that’s not what the Ministry’s menial workers like himself do, they simply nod and wait for further instruction. He refolds the note and tucks it back into his inner pocket, takes a bite of his soggy toast.

“Well I’m all for it,” Zabini says around a mouthful of lettuce and Caesar sauce, waving his smeared fork around before swallowing.

Seamus snorts from next to Dean, his own plate finished with. “Well o’ course y’are. You suggested it,” he chuckles, pinching a grape from Dean’s plate, earning him a scowl.

Zabini laughs jovially, stuffs a cherry tomato into his mouth while Harry tries to pretend he has any kind of idea as to what they’re all talking about. That tends to happened a lot; he never pays attention to the social constructs around him, never pays any heed to anything that isn't work-related, if he’s honest. It's probably part of the reason his, Ron and Hermione’s relationship is so strained at the moment.

“So are we all in agreement?” Dean looks around the table, his eyes landing on Harry before flicking back to Zabini with a tilt of his head. He stares at Zabini for another moment, trying to subtly hint towards Harry. Harry would laugh at the pathetic attempt but he’s too tired to even bother.

Zabini, to his credit, only seems to waver for a second or two before he claps his hands together once and turns his faux genteel attention on Harry. “Ah, just the man I wanted to see,” he starts enthusiastically, folding his hands underneath his chin, his fingers threaded, nails neatly trimmed. “So, we were just discussing, and wondering, what our next orders were? Whether we’re working tonight or granted it as free seen as, you know, it’s Saturday night?”

Zabini grins almost mechanically, and Harry has the overwhelming urge to reach across the table and punch him in the face. It was only last night that he’d had a free, and now he wants to go out again? Harry grits his teeth and wonders if he’d be able to get at least one good swing in before the others dived at him and hauled him off—he probably could.

As it is, he’s sure he’d be suspended for such behaviour, so he picks at the crust of his toast and swallows the buttery piece still in his mouth. “We’re in holding for the next twenty-four hours at least, so you can all do as you please.”

There’s a shared cordial “whoop” around the table and Harry tosses his ripped, half-eaten toast onto an unused side plate before standing. “Have fun,” he states. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you all to be on your best behaviour?”

Seamus and Dean share a look and Zabini snorts. “You don’t have to worry about us, Boss,” he simpers and lifts a speared cube of cucumber to his mouth.

Harry stares at him for a moment, gaze unwavering. “Again then, have fun.” He nods to the group and makes to leave, strolling around the back of Terry’s chair and barely avoiding banging his knee on the ornately carved leg.

“Will you not be joining us?” Boot asks as Harry makes it safely passed his chair. Harry shakes his head.

“Wha’? Come on ‘Arry. You never joins us, anymore.” Seamus looks imploringly from across the table with a slight pout and arms folded. He’s chewing on what Harry guesses is another one of Dean’s grapes from the fruit platter he’s procured. The sullen look reminds Harry—so much so in that moment—of when he and Ron had played a prank on the boys in their dormitory in 3rd Year, and poor Seamus had taken the full brunt of it. He hadn’t had any eyebrows or hair for over a week and had hated every second of it, naturally. He took to sulking in their shared room and glared at Harry and Ron whenever they entered.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, bringing Harry yet again out of another reverie. “Aren’t you supposed to be allowing yourself to be more social?” He pushes his plate of fruit over to Seamus, who digs in immediately with a grateful smile.

Harry, not for the first time, curses Ginny for having the gall to date Dean directly after him. Of having her bring Dean indirectly into his life through their shared love of the Weasleys, and not because he’s jealous or anything of the sort, but because Ginny had told Dean every sordid detail of his mental breakdown and what that had entailed. That and the fact that because Dean was dating Ginny, he had been present that one day when the Weasleys had decided to make an impromptu visit to Grimmauld Place, only to find Harry sprawled out, unconscious, on his kitchen floor from where he’d fallen out of his chair, blood seeping into the grooves between the old clay tiles and dripping from the oak table. That day had been one of Harry’s worst and Ginny had inadvertently dragged Dean along to see it.

“Come on, Harry. Say you’ll come with us?” Dean takes a sip of his water, leaning back in his chair.

Seamus nods. “Yeah.”

Harry sighs. These requests happen all too frequently for his liking. Almost twice a week he’s subjected to listening to party plans in the Auror cafeteria, and every time he is invited to join but never does; he always politely declines or takes on an extra patrol that just so happens to be at the same time of the event. He isn’t antisocial—except that he is—he just doesn't like the false façade people tend to put up around him sometimes, like they’re walking on eggshells, less he snaps. Besides, he feels just as shit with people as he does without so what's the point? He may as well be miserable in the comfort of his own home, at least there he can smoke if he needs to.

That was another thing that had put a strain on his relationship with the other two-thirds of the golden trio. Hermione had frowned upon him smoking weed from the very beginning, almost two years ago now, and had tried to force him to see a Misuse Of Muggle Substances group.

Harry had refused. He wasn't going to any group called M.O.M.S, and he and Hermione fell out for weeks thereafter. She would still bombard him with Floo calls though, about him needing help, and posting self help leaflets via owl. Eventually, Harry relented in his stubborn attempt to become a fully fledged hermit and Flooed over to Ron and Hermione’s flat. There, he explained why he smoked, why he needed it, and Hermione conceded, encouraged him to see a Mind Healer instead—but as he was already seeing one at the time, she reluctantly left the issue alone.

That was, of course, until she became pregnant with Hugo. Upon discovering she was ten weeks along she refused to step foot in Harry's house, (the passive smoke she inhaled could harm the baby and she’d already had a difficult pregnancy with Rose.) If she smelt any smoke on Harry’s clothes when he visited she would send him home to wash and change—which was futile because the smell of weed had literally seeped into everything; he smoked it that often.

Harry could understand her concern to a certain extent. Almost losing her first born was obviously going to make Hermione more protective of this one. But being shunned by his supposedly close friends hurt. His relationship with Ron had been rocky since breaking up with Ginny; somehow, Ron blamed Harry for not trying hard enough, and no one seemed to care that he was still struggling (or if they did, they didn't show it.)

Harry doesn't blame them though. They have a family of their own now and that’s more important than a fly by friendship of three eleven year olds who would grow up in the centre of a battle, one in which even they wouldn’t realise how germane their roles would be.

“Come on ‘Arry. This place is suppos' to be good,” Seamus announces as he leans in across the table. “Ya can’t keep blowing us off. There’s no work to distract you now.”

“You know, he doesn’t have to come if he doesn’t want to.” Zabini shoves his salad roughly away. His face looks like he’s been sucking on a lemon, his back and shoulders rigid, though he’s trying to appear calm.

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Harry, mate. Come out with use. Even if it’s just for one drink.”

Zabini huffs, folding his arms across his chest, staring straight ahead, and Harry can see the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching as his bravado finally slips. He wonders what Zabini’s problem is with him lately. Why he seems to want to shun Harry so readily—why the bastard suddenly hates him. It can’t be Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry anymore, they got passed that during their third year of training when they were both partnered together while Ron took paternity leave for Rose. So what is it? For a mere second, Harry considers that maybe Zabini knows Harry was there last night, that the blonde had moaned for him and not Zabini. But that’s an absurd fantasy. One that’s impossible thanks to Harry’s Notice-Me-Not charm, and it’s perverted and disgusting of Harry to think otherwise.

He sighs. He should say no and return to his room. Maybe he can catch up on some tele or maybe watch a film—but where there's a club there's alcohol of at least 40%, and the thought of being able to get well and truly smashed out of his absolute mind is too tempting to deny.

"Fine,” Harry concedes. “One drink.”

 

†††

 

   The club is situated out of the way, off the main road of Victoria Square, on Wellington Road, and even though Harry had tracked this way the previous night, he hadn't noticed it. He's sure he would have heard it if it wasn’t for the music coming from the Pub around the corner that night. But as it was, he’d missed it. Plus, the place is concealed by a large array of shops and businesses towering high around it. It’s a shame really, Harry thinks, as it looks well kept and clean from the outside; all black and chrome tables and fancy plants, smoked glass windows and doors. He’s sure it would get more patrons if it was more unenclosed, but he guesses that’s why it’s had to make a name for itself.

He glances up and down the short, desolate street, only him and his team, as well as the two bouncers, are here. It’s oddly disconcerting that a nightclub should be so barren. He steps up to one of the bouncers, producing his Muggle I.D and handing over a fiver so he can receive a hot pink water-resistant stamp to the back of his hand. The others have already done the same and they crowd around the entrance as the bouncers push open the glass door. Harry is immediately assaulted by a pounding, heady bass and the acrid smell of stale lager and damp smoke machines. Purple and pink lights strobe overhead and flash in time with the music’s tempo—illuminating every available space that’s jam packed with writhing bodies as they dance and move together.

Harry’s astonished. The club hadn’t looked this large from outside, and from how quiet the street had been Harry had assumed the club would be dead. Oh, how wrong he was.

There are bodies everywhere—squashed into leather booths, sat around small bistro like tables, crammed onto the dance floor before the DJ booth—and in the corner of the hazy mauve coloured space, stands a large, metallic curved bar doused in lilac spotlights where five young members of staff are rushing to serve even more of the demanding patrons that hover over each other in their attempts to get a drink.

Harry follows behind Seamus as they battle further into the purple themed room, receiving an elbow in the ribs and a vodka spilt on his shoe.

He tries to steer himself out of the way of the many shaking bodies as they show little disregard for the fact he's trying to walk behind them and get to the bar, simply throwing themselves in front of him then dancing back to their partners. A pink strobe light dashes across Harry’s face, glaring off his glasses, before continuing on over Seamus and then Boot as they all steadily make their way towards the rear end of the club—near an open courtyard entrance and the thinner end of the main bar where Pansy Parkinson is stood handing over her money to a male bartender.

_What?_

Harry glances again at the bar—ducking around an avid dancer—and sure enough, Pansy Parkinson is stood on the far side, knocking back shot after shot as she retrieves them from the sticky bar top. She's somehow managed to slither into a tight fitted, black, strapless dress which ends mid-thigh, showing off her voluptuous curves. And she's fashioned with a sleek black bob that is longer at the front and cut up into her neck. Harry frowns, stumbles a step in his confusion before a hand grabs his arm and pulls him around, then away.

Zabini scowls down at him, his grip on Harry’s bicep is almost painful. “I’m warning you now, Harry Potter. Don’t start anything to ruin tonight. It’s supposed to be a fun endeavour for all of us and I won’t have you starting shit, understand?”

Harry tilts his head, fascinated, even as he seethes, that someone has the temerity to confront him so openly. It’s laughable really and he should show Zabini exactly why. But again, he’s Zabini’s superior isn’t he, even if they’re off duty, they’re still here in relation to a case and beating one of his fellow subordinates wouldn’t look too good on Harry’s personal file (though, that in itself holds it’s own appeal, he thinks.) Still, this imperious mind set won’t do him any favours with the rest of his team tonight. Plus he’s somewhat offended that Zabini could seriously suggest that Harry would start something over Parkinson. Sure, she may have tried to hand him over to the dark lord, but Harry’s had quite a few more difficulties since then, they kind of brought a lot of things into prospective. So, grudgingly, Harry nods, yanking his arm free from Zabini’s punishing fingers.

“Good.” Zabini nods, looking more relaxed. “Thanks, Boss.” He moves to push passed Harry but stops at the last minute, striding back into Harry’s personal space. It takes everything Harry has not to deck him right there on the dance floor.

“And another thing, stay away from him,” he snips into Harry’s face, before turning abruptly on his heel and making a beeline for Parkinson through the throng of dancers, promptly drawing her in for a friendly hug and leaving Harry behind feeling utterly confused and irked.

He has no inkling as to who Zabini’s referring to but he doesn’t appreciate being spoken to like an errant delinquent. He isn’t fifteen anymore and Dolores Umbridge is still under protective order somewhere off the continent. Consequences be damned. Harry only has so much self control, and most of that in provided by his potions. If Zabini so much as breaths near Harry again—

No. Thoughts of malicious intent lead to disorderly behaviour and in turn causes more misfortune, Harry can hear Healer Brotherston reciting to him now. He takes a deep, calming breath and stays out near the dance floor, stalking Zabini with a hardened scowl, watching as he pushes Parkinson into the bar, much like he had with the blonde from last night, and Parkinson reciprocates by threading her long-nailed fingers into his dark, shorn locks, kissing his cheek while he pulls her in tighter. Then Zabini’s placing his own kisses upon her ruby red lips, his hands running along her hips and settling on the prominent swell of her arse. They almost look like lovers, Harry supposes, yet that’s not really possible after what he’d witnessed last night, is it. He raises a slow condescending eyebrow. Or is it?

“‘Arry!” Seamus suddenly calls over the din, gesturing for Harry to join them at the bar. Harry huffs indignant and shuffles over reluctantly, his cantankerous expression still firmly in place.

“Cheer up, ‘Arry. Ya’ll have a great time.” Seamus smiles. “If you just let ya self go a bit.”

“Doubtful,” Harry mutters in reply as he leans an elbow on the bar, glaring as whatever discussion between Zabini and Parkinson dies in mere seconds now that Parkinson’s caught sight of him over Zabini’s shoulder. She looks startled, a lamb caught in the wolves den, and ogles Harry with wide eyes before glancing back at Zabini, a silent conversation passing between them.

Harry sighs and stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets, feeling decidedly out of place and wishing for the solitude of his hotel room and his black box. He hates that he’s here already and tries to think of an appropriate excuse to leave, but then Parkinson is moving towards him, arm outstretched as she offers him her hand, and Harry can detect the discreet tremble of her fingers, the subtle guard she has raised on her face, the slight twist of her mouth as she tries to hide her discomfort, and he knows this is somehow a pivotal moment.

He peeps round at his fellow Aurors, all watching and waiting expectantly, and grimaces internally as guilt slowly hacks into his lower stomach; he doesn't want to ruin their night before it's even begun, he really doesn’t, he’d thought it even before Zabini’s pitiful attempt at threatening him. So, resigned, he huffs again and finds a smile from somewhere in the depths of his long lost Gryffindor bravado and summons up the courage to place his hand securely in Parkinson’s. She looks taken a back but returns the favour after an astonished laugh, shaking his hand thrice before releasing it with a satisfied smile. She turns to the other Aurors, grinning invitingly as she offers each one, one after the other, an enthusiastic hand shake and a polite “hello.”

She is just releasing Boot’s hand when, out of the corner of his eye, Harry observes milky pale arms slide around Zabini's waist, rice skin hands running up his torso to settle on his chest, a blonde head appearing over his shoulder—the blonde from yesterday, Harry guesses, as Zabini raises his arm to wrap around the head in an awkward embrace.

The blonde regards the newcomers with an endearing smirk and Harry’s breath catches at the back of his throat as grey eyes, reflecting a plethora of bad decisions, peer into green now that the blonde’s face is tipped up to meet his.

“Potter.”

Harry stares, transfixed, at the boy who’d made his life hell for seven years, until he hadn’t.

“Malfoy?” He asks, voice breathier than it needs to be, and Malfoy gives a curt nod of acknowledgement before turning swiftly to escort the group to a nearby table.

Harry stays where he is, watching Malfoy’s skinny hips sway in his tight, grey jeans as he saunters through the crowd, the group following behind and taking up various seats around the small, bistro style table. Harry moves to join them, but is held back with another hand on his shoulder.

“I’m serious, Boss,” Zabini implores into Harry’s ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of it, his fingers biting into Harry’s skin. “Stay away from him.”

Ah. Harry chuckles caustically, turning his head further towards Zabini’s with a slight tilt, mouth stretched into satirical smirk. “From, Malfoy?” He murmurs teasingly. “It’s like you didn’t even attend Hogwarts with us for seven years, Zabini.”

Zabini’s throat works three times as he licks is lips, seemingly ambivalent, before he replies. “Exactly. I won’t have you hurting him. Not after everything.”

Harry pauses, recoils from Zabini’s grasp as he considers what Zabini is saying. His supercilious grin slips from his face. Of course the man would be protective over one of his oldest and dearest friends, for Merlin’s sake, it was only last night that Zabini had had Malfoy pressed up against that lamppost outside Harry’s hotel room, the one where both of them had gotten off together, flushed and panting, moaning— _Jesus._

He stares up into Zabini’s chocolate brown eyes and a plum coloured strobe flashes back at him. Once. Twice. Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair as he looks away. “You’ve no cause for concern, Zabini. I’ve left all of my animosity in the passed where it belongs. I thought I’d proven that when I sent off that letter of evidence to help aid Malfoy in his trail.”

Zabini frowns and calmly shakes his head. “No letter was ever cataloged from you, Potter,” he says gradually, dark eyebrows still knitted. “Draco was sentenced to ten years.”

Harry blinks, that can’t be right. He thinks back, to that sweltering Monday morning when he’d sent off Boreas, Harry’s hand written statement tied securely to his leg with charmed twine. It was the same morning that Harry’d gone out into Grimmauld Place’s back yard and finally replaced the carburettor on Sirius’ bike. He frowns in befuddlement. “They must have gotten it, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. It’s not been ten years since the war. I should know.”

“He’s on probation due to a… technicality. Not because of you.” Zabini backs up slightly, a curious look passing over his tanned features. He gestures towards the bar. “Look, I’ll get a round in. Just, tread carefully around him, yeah?”

All Harry can do is nod, his legs feel like jelly and his head is pounding with the tempo of the music pulsating around him. A purple strobe light illuminates Zabini’s white shirt and Harry thinks the colour rather suits Zabini’s complexion better than the white.

He lifts his head to find Zabini still watching him. “And just so you know, when it comes to him, I don’t give a Circe’s tit whether you’re my senior office or not, Boss.”

Harry raises a disbelieving eyebrow, wondering whether he is really having this conversation.

“I’m giving you a chance,” Zabini continues over the beat of bass. “And you’ve really no idea what that means. No idea at all.” He turns towards the bar and murmurs what Harry think’s is, “but he deserves a chance,” and gestures for a bar-hand to serve him.

Harry doesn’t think he’d go as far as to say he deserves a chance to be nice to Malfoy but says nothing, just stands there awkwardly with his arms crossed across his stomach while Zabini leans over the bar top to tell the young bartender his order. He points to various bottles at the back of the bar and then towards the table where they’re all sitting, and the boy nods that he understands and moves along the bar, opening a fridge and pulling out seven bottles, uncapping them and shoving them in front of Zabini.

“You may as well go sit down,” Zabini says, gazing at Harry again, elbow on the bar and his ankle hooked back over the bar’s chrome barricade. “I’ve bought you a drink now, so you may as well stay.”

“Oh, well, now I have your blessing, I don’t really think I like this place. Um, might just nip around the corner to The Angel Inn.”

Zabini laughs. “What? And waste that fiver you spent getting in here? Come now, Boss.” He holds out a few bottles for Harry to carry. “I know you won’t do that, you’re a cheap sod.”

Harry snorts. “Sure. I’m all about saving money.” He and Zabini stroll over to the table, which is already littered with glasses and bottles, and Parkinson removes the empty ones onto the floor when she see’s their approach. “That’s why I’ve been through three Lambos in four years with no quibble,” Harry continues, placing his arms full of bottles onto the available space.

Zabini laughs as he does the same, taking a seat in the booth next to Parkinson. “Only three? I heard it was five.”

“No just the three. The Gallardo I have right now is fairing well.” Harry stands back, hesitates to take the last seat as it’s next to Malfoy. He glances at Zabini, who shrugs, suddenly unconcerned despite his earlier warnings. So, with a sigh, Harry pulls out the metal stool and drops onto it, quickly grabbing a bottle and draining it in one go.

“Impressive,” Parkinson remarks from across the table, shoving another bottle towards him. Harry shrugs and downs that one as well, thunking it back onto the table top with a lick of his lips.

He feels a knee knock into his under the table, notices that Malfoy is much closer than Harry finds himself comfortable with, and Harry can’t help but heed just how unbelievably different Malfoy looks from this distance, how unduly handsome he’s turned out to be. It should come as no surprise. Zabini has a reputation in the department for being adventurous, a bit of slag (if you want to be polite), but he has good taste, exceptionally high standards (for men and women), and Malfoy is no exception.

The years since the war have been good to him, indefinitely. His once pointy features have eased out, giving him a more effeminate face but still a strong, chiselled jaw, and his nose; a petit slope that flicks up slightly at the tip, is the perfect specimen of aristocratic breeding. Harry wants to run his finger down it—wonders if Malfoy would like that, if he’d _allow_ that—so his finger could follow the thin ridge, over the scanty bump, and continue on to his lips. And Merlin, those lips; cherry plump with the most severe Cupid’s bow Harry has ever seen, they glisten pink in the flashing strobe lights from when Malfoy’s sucked on his bottle and not licked the remnants away. Harry wonders if Malfoy’d be partial to letting Harry do it for him, or maybe just have him run his thumb over that bottom lip and collect the remaining lager there, maybe dip into the shadowed valley and pry them apart, allowing Malfoy’s tongue to peek out and simply _taste._

Harry inhales sharply, moves his gaze to what he thinks is a safer zone, and he suddenly forgets to breathe—that his body needs oxygen—because he’s caught by those eyes, those piecing, storm silver eyes, and they’re lined in kohl, a deep charcoal kohl that makes them more pronounced and striking; eyelashes standing out in stark contrast they’re so pale, almost like glitter dusting along Malfoy’s eyelids. Harry wants to know where Malfoy came up with idea to mar them, whether he’s done it for Zabini or just because he wants to—because he knows how much more beautiful it makes him look.

Merlin, the only thing about him that’s the same is his hair; the same enticing platinum blonde. Though it’s longer than Harry’s ever seen it, pulled up into a messy knot at the back of his head save for a few stray strands cupping his cheeks and falling into his eyes. He’s still lithe too, and Harry likes that, it’s familiar, but toned in all the right places. And he’s probably stronger than he looks—Harry knows—from what he can see of Malfoy’s arms; bare with his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing a road map of mouth watering blue veins and muscles. Harry wants to trace them with his tongue, wonders if Malfoy would let him.

“You have a Lamborghini Gallardo?” Said blonde Adonis asks to Harry’s right. His shirt is open at the collar so it reveals some of his chest and collarbones in a most delectable V, and the bottom is only tucked into his jeans at the front, probably to show off his belt which is black leather with a chunky, silver buckle. The buckle matches the ones on his boots, coming halfway up his calves and sporting a distinct metal badge that reads ‘New Rock.’

But Harry’s gaze returns to Malfoy’s arms, to those deliciously delicate looking veins, and realises, belatedly, that Malfoy’s infamous dark mark is on full display. Only now it’s incorporated into a full sleeve tattoo that contains multiple Narcissuses, all in various shades of white, cream and yellow—all intertwined in black shaded swirls and green ivy vines.

Malfoy truly looks like otherworldly perfection, and the fact that he’s Zabini’s is like being subjected to a thousand Crucios.

“Potter?” Malfoy nudges Harry’s arm with his elbow, drawing Harry away from his thoughts. The whole table is looking at him. He clears his throat. “Sorry. What?”

Malfoy smirks, setting another bottle down before him. “I queried after your Lamborghini, Potter. Or is it a faux fancy?”

Harry picks up the offered bottle and takes a large gulp, clearing his throat afterwards. “Er, no. I actually have a Gallardo, custom made, six months old.” He avoids Malfoy’s gaze, stares instead at the stained table top.

“How is it custom?” Parkinson leans across the table for a Martini glass, her breasts practically spilling out of her dress.

“Oh, er. I just wanted it in gold. And they didn’t do that so, I had to have it custom sprayed.”

Malfoy snorts. “Typical Gryffindor, wants everything in gold. Tell me, is the interior burgundy leather?”

The whole table chortles as Malfoy sips his drink, eyeing Harry over the base of the bottle. Harry can see him in his peripheral vision. “No, it isn’t. It’s just black leather,” he assures. “And I only wanted gold because it reminded me of a Snitch, not because I’m a Gryffindor.”

Dean slams down his beer in mock offence. “You know, that’s really disheartening, Harry. What ever happened to Gryffindor Pride and all that?”

“I think it’s safe to say, we left all that behind when we left Hogwarts. Christ, man, it’s been five years,” Boot titters, leaning back against the leather booth.

“You never leave House Pride behind, it stay’s with you,” Dean argues, Seamus nodding along at his side. “There’s a reason your sorted into each house to start with, they define you for life.”

Boot shakes his head. “I don’t think so—“

“Oh, I do. It’s been five years but we all still follow the Slytherin code, darling.” Parkinson gestures between her, Zabini and Malfoy with her glass, some of the liquid sloshing over the side and spilling over her fingers.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, raising his hands in placate surrender. “I wish for no part in this discussion. I’m off to the bar.” He rises fluidly and saunters away, Harry gazing all the while at his arse as it sways. It really is quite captivating, round and pert, and deliciously indecent; the way it sucks in the seam of Malfoy’s jeans and stretches the pockets across both globes. Harry feels his cock twitch with interest—a new oddity recently that’s a welcomed reprieve, but still… Malfoy is Zabini’s, Harry reminds himself bitterly, moving his gaze back to the table and picking up a random bottle. He swigs it back and expects the bitter froth of the lager he’s been drinking, but receives a mouthful of sugary lemon. He sputters and pulls the bottle away with a grimace, looks at the label: Smirnoff Ice. Disgusting. He thunks it back to the table and rubs his face, leaving a hand on his mouth as he subconsciously glances back at the bar—and Malfoy’s arse.

Merlin’s saggy bollocks, he’s no idea where this sudden lust for the blonde has come from. He’s like a dog after a bitch in heat—fevered and uncontrollable. Some part of that scares him. He hasn’t felt this way in years, and to feel it for Malfoy—to feel anything for Malfoy—is absolutely terrifying. But then, there’s always been something between him and Malfoy, hasn’t there? Underneath all the school boy rivalry and fear, they’ve always been interwoven; connected in ways they didn’t know possible (the Elder Wand being a prime example) and Harry thinks he’ll always be drawn back to Malfoy, in one way or another, as the fates see fit, like a nesting Dragon always returns to her eggs.

Merlin, but this line of thinking is no good, harry sighs, picking up another bottle—Lager thankfully—and turns back to the table where the conversation of Houses has moved on to whether or not Parkinson has had any work done to her breasts. Harry snorts, gulping down most of the bottle. From across the table, Zabini is eyeing him with rapt attention, a small peculiar smile twisting his lips. He too glances at the bar and back at Harry, his grin stretching wider, so much so he could put a Cheshire Cat to shame.

Heat spreads up Harry’s neck and he feels himself blush; Zabini’s obviously caught him ogling his boyfriend. Merlin, his boyfriend. Malfoy is Zabini’s _boyfriend_ , and here Harry is blatantly looking at him. Harry hangs his head and slumps in his seat, he’ll apologise to Zabini later if he needs to. Or maybe not, just because Zabini’s being a prick at the moment.

Malfoy returns a few minutes later, placing a small glass jug containing red liquid in the centre of the table, along with a stack of seven shot glasses and a small bag of black bead shaped balls. He takes his seat again next to Harry, his knee sliding along Harry’s thigh as he adjusts the crotch of his jeans.

“The heck is that? What’s in it?” Boot picks up the jug to inspect the contents, screwing his nose up in disgust at the smell.

When Malfoy doesn't reply straight away, he slams the jug back onto the table and leans back in the booth with folded arms, annoyed.  
  
Parkinson snickers, reaches across the table to grab the curved handle of the jug, her nails looking bright and pearlescent against the darker liquor. She pours the crimson liquid into the shot glasses provided as Malfoy belatedly explains, “take an aniseed ball, grind it in your mouth—but don't swallow. Then take a shot and down it all.”

Boot sighs exasperatedly. "But what's in the jug?” He persists.

"Vodka and pig's blood,” Malfoy states manner of factually before tossing a few aniseed balls into his mouth. His perfectly pink tongue flexing up against his perfectly white teeth. “They only sell it here.” He winks and then takes a shot before he’s even finished chewing—much to Boot's aghast horror.

The mixed liquor stains his lips a deep rouge red when he pulls the shot glass away; pale pink skin smeared in translucent scarlet, and Harry wants to lean across him and taste the blood there. Feels his cock throb at the thought of it.

He quickly picks up a small mouthful of black balls and stuffs them into his mouth, just for the distraction, and watches as Parkinson follows Malfoy’s example and downs her shot. Zabini next and then Dean.

Slowly, the rest of the group do the same until it's Harry's turn. He’s still grinding his aniseed with his back teeth, his mouth watering and filling with bittersweet saliva, making his tongue tingle around the sides. He’s overcome with the urge to swallow so he raises the last shot glass to his lips, notes the coppery scent before he downs it quickly in one gulp, trying not to dribble any tangy saliva as his mouth is overwhelmed. It isn't too bad if Harry's honest; the fragments of aniseed scratch his throat slightly as it all washes down, and the sweetness is quickly overtaken by the metallic taste of blood, but it's not the worst thing that he's tasted and the over all flavour is subdued by the burn of the vodka. Still, he retches all the same.

Beside him he can see Malfoy smiling at his grimace; a small, amused, lift of lips. And it isn't malicious or condescending like Harry keeps expecting—it's light and jovial and makes Malfoy’s face almost glow. It looks so open and genuine, and Merlin, but the man looks beautiful. Harry's lips curve skywards at the corners of his mouth as he fights against the rising blush on his cheeks, and for the first time in a long time, he's glad that he's come out.

 

†††

 

   Hours go by and the table, and the surrounding floor and booth, has become a wasteland of glass; various bottles and glasses scattered and over turned, coloured liquor spilt and glistening in the overhead lights, more pitchers and bottles patiently waiting to be consumed in the free spaces between the mayhem, and a young bar-hand is trying to clear the table as best she can. There’s no tray for all the empties though, she’s only using her hands and arms—she’s stacked up at least eight pint glasses and carrying six empty Larger bottles before she returns to the bar.

Harry downs another shot and plops the empty glass inside a larger one that the bar-hand’s just come back for. She smiles gratefully at him before leaving, and he slumps slightly across the table now that there’s room. He isn't sure how many drinks he’s had at this point—he lost count sometime after shot number nine—and he’s listing to one side, feels buzzed, good, numb;, and the room minutely moves as though he's on a ship at sea. It hurts his head, makes him feel dizzy and disoriented, though it isn't a problem, it's welcomed. It's always welcomed.

Harry tries to gawp around the club, take stock of the heaving bodies pressed so closely together. He hadn't realised how full it had gotten, how warm. Sweat has begun to gather on his forehead and upper lip so he runs a trembling hand over his face and into his hair, probably causing it to look more disastrous than it already does.

He twists back to his table and grabs the remainder of his Vodka and Redbull, knocks it back quickly before picking up someone’s wine glass. He gags at the sour taste (it’s probably house white) and the music resonating from the speaker above him changes tempo, makes Seamus’ discarded Bacardi and lemonade ripple, and then he’s assaulted by the epileptic inducing lights that dominate the dance floor. He shuts his eyes and rips at his black shirt sleeves so he can roll them up to his elbow, revealing taut, bronzed flesh in the process—Merlin but he’s warm. He opens his eyes again so he can make a grab for the cheap wine glass, even though it’s unsavoury he needs the coolness of the liquor, and then he feels it. He feels Malfoy’s attentive gaze on him, eyes burning into the side of his face before traveling down along his arms—the bass turns to static around him.

Harry attempts to keep his face impassive, pretends that Malfoy’s limpid steel eyes on him don’t affect him the way that they do, and he takes a careful sip of wine from his stolen drink. Malfoy’s pupils bob with his working throat, become alight with jollity. He leans in to Harry, his knee knocking into Harry’s thigh. “I hope you know that that’s my wine you’re enjoying, Potter,” he smirks, eyes shining in a kaleidoscope of strobes.

Harry’s eyes widen and he automatically spits out the mouthful he was about to swallow back into the glass, just so he can sputter an apology. “Shit, Malfoy. I’ll—I’ll get you another. Er, what it is?”

Malfoy laughs lightly in Harry’s face, his warm breath caressing Harry’s cheek, and Harry is so surprised and startled by this that all he can do is stare in shock. “If you’re buying, Potter, I’ll have a bottle of their most expensive.”

“Oh, ok,” Harry agrees automatically, shoving himself unsteadily to his feet. He stumbles to the bar, pushing through the din, and thinks he can hear Malfoy’s protestations behind him but the bass is pretty loud so he’s not entirely sure.

The bar is still crowded, covered it sticky rings from knocked drinks and discarded glasses, and most of the patrons have taken to standing there and conversing instead of finding a table. A bar-hand comes to serve Harry almost immediately though, rushing down to his end and leaning over to hear him, not a care in the world that the end of her ponytail has just swiped through what smells like spilt cordial. Harry shouts that he wants the most expensive thing they have and the bar-hand looks surprised but informs him that that would be an aged bottle of Champagne at £275. It’s not really what Harry would call expensive but he nods anyway as it’s what Malfoy has asked for.

As the bartender meanders off to fetch Harry’s requested bottle, a tentative hand reaches out to grab his left wrist. Long, paper pale fingers wrap around and trail up and along the brown leather band there. The touch feels electrifying, causes a hot flush to ascend up Harry's neck and goose-pimples to break out across his tanned skin as feather light finger-tips run across the embroidered runes carved into the band's leather hide; it goes from his wrist all the way up his forearm and is fastened with eight thin leather pieces on either side, knotted in bows on the underside. Harry’s breathing deepens, becomes laboured as the air turns thick around him, and then Malfoy is there beside him, his body heat overwhelming as he leans in to casually mutter, “I was only kidding before, Potter.” His eyes are dancing, alive with the lights, flecks of chrome and silver turning to rose gold in the pink hues. Harry is utterly mesmerised.

“Oh, er. Well, I’ve already ordered now,” he says, almost in a daze. His breath hitches when Malfoy’s grip on his arm becomes firmer.

“You shouldn’t have. Though, I suppose the most expensive thing they have here is a bottle of Brut at £20.”

“Hmm.” Harry debates whether or not to tell Malfoy the actual price of the Champagne he’s just ordered, wonders if Malfoy would be impressed with the gesture, but decides against it as he isn’t a preening peacock. Plus, you don’t tell the people you buy gifts for the price do you? It’s rude.

He turns away as the bar-hand returns with the bottle of Champagne and Malfoy’s grip ceases, allowing Harry to dig out his bank card. He enters his pin and waits for confirmation before the girl pushes the bottle towards him. He misses Malfoy’s touch already.

“Enjoy boys.” The bar-hand grins as she places two glasses beside the bottle before sauntering off.

Harry clears his throat as he stuffs his card back into his wallet. “Um, there you go. I’m sure you can enjoy that with, Zabini.” He tries saying Zabini’s name without bite but he knows he’s unsuccessful. Malfoy studies him with a slight tilt to his head, pupils marginally wider than they were.

“Thank you,” the blonde murmurs carefully, grabbing the bottle and glasses after a moments hesitation. “Do you not like good Champagne then, Potter?”

Harry shakes his head. “Too fizzy.”

Malfoy smiles. “Shame. Though I think me and Pansy will savour this. It’s been a long time since we’ve had something so extravagant.”

Harry nods nonchalantly as he has no idea what else to do with the information he’s been graced with, and they make their way back to the table: Harry slumping back into his seat and Malfoy showing his gifted bottle to Parkinson. She gasps as she turns the bottle in her hands to read the label, gawps wide-eyed at Harry when Malfoy points to him and murmurs in her ear. She cackles, hugging the bottle to her chest as though she’s been told it’s filled with Felix Felicis rather than unpretentious Champagne, her breasts pushing against the green glass and the bottle’s condensation sheering her dress’s fabric.

An over exuberant “thank you” is screamed across the table and then she and Malfoy are gulping straight from the bottle of Champagne—no glasses required. Harry rolls his eyes, avoiding the temptation to look at Malfoy’s lips wrapped around the bottle head. He sighs; he feels more sober now than he has in hours, and his wrist feels itchy and hot from where Malfoy’s fingers had been, the memory of it is frustrating him. Sometimes he considers that Malfoy is actively flirting with him, thinks of the subtle touches and warm glances, their legs swiping together under the table. But then Harry remembers the events of last night, of Malfoy pressed up against that lamppost as he’d moaned into Zabini’s neck. Harry groans in his hands, the grumble lost in a suddenly enhanced bass that reverberates around the club.

The whole club comes alive in a cheer of drunken glee and before Harry can lower his hands, Malfoy is clambering up onto the table top, hand clasped in Parkinson’s so he can pull her along. They’re soon joined by Zabini and the three of them jump in unison with the rest of the club. The table shakes as they move frantically and in a frenzy, grinding and swaying hips as they try to keep up with the beat. Dean grabs the table sides in a futile attempt to steady it while Seamus gathers their drinks to safety.

All three serpents cling to each other in unison, yelling at the top of their lungs with some prick singing about some bloke called Dave on a train, and Harry frowns at Zabini's hand in Malfoy's as they bounce and scream together, Malfoy’s boots crashing heavily onto the table as he chants he’s gunna get ya. Get who, Harry isn't sure but if it's Blaise Zabini then he's going to kill the twat and throw him into the harbour, no one would ever find him, Harry’ll make sure of that. He growls and grits his teeth as he stares, involuntary captivated now that Malfoy's shirt has risen up from when he threw his hands into the air; his lower stomach and sharp hip bones are on full display along with a thin happy trail of fair hair leading into his jeans. Harry’s striving for calm, he really is, but only eliciting further displeasure as he watches Zabini sling an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders as they sing. And then, suddenly, the alcohol in Harry’s system hits him full force and he needs to go cool down before he's sick.

_“Always lived my life alone. Been searching for the place called home. I know that I've been cold as ice. Ignored the dreams, too many lies. Somewhere deep inside, somewhere deep inside me, I found ... the child I used to be. And I know that it's not too late, never too late...”_

Harry leaves the Slytherins to their orgy, shooting one final glare at Zabini before stumbling to his feet and hobbling his way out of the back door, into the smoking area he’d caught a glimpse of earlier.

The small courtyard is relatively full, and people are even dancing out here, jumping and grinding as they shout with bottles and glasses raised into the air. There’s a large group of males stood under one of the cream parasols, trying to find warmth from the heater tied above them. They raise their drinks and cheer in friendly jests as Harry walks passed them, making his way towards a more shadowed area under a sheltered pergola. Here, it’s more secluded and quiet but for a small few who think this is a great place to engage in sexual activity. Harry regards a woman in the far corner as she bounces on her lover's lap, all the while the bloke pulls at her hair and gasps into her mouth with a breathy groan, and Harry cringes at her arse jiggling like some sort of gone off jelly with every thrust. He wonders why there’s no security out here to dissuade them, peers around the area and contemplates leaving but decides that the solitariness of the place outweighs it’s recreational use.

Shrugging, he trots over to a nearby plant at the back of the courtyard, sits on a raised railway sleeper beside it and leans back against the tall fence behind. He’s sweating profusely and the world feels like it’s moving, turning, even with his eyes closed, and he becomes overwhelmed by an onslaught of nausea, feels it in his head. Then, he has to grasp the porcelain plant pot beside him so hard that his knuckles turn white, just to anchor himself to _something_ , just to prove to his body that the world is still, it isn’t moving.

His stomach rolls, his head hurts and the plant's swaying as he heaves—

Acidic bile travels up along Harry’s oesophagus and he empties the contents of his stomach onto the bark that covers the soil in the pot; yellow liquid and what he thinks was those Walkers crisps he’d enjoyed earlier. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand when finished, slumps back down onto his make-do bench and aims to fish out his packet of cigarettes.

The carton gets stuck in his tight pocket by it’s corner, and he crushes and rips the lid in his haste to get the pack out. There’s only four left out of twenty when he looks, he curses himself for giving up the pack so readily every time Seamus had asked.

“‘Array?”

Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. Seamus and Dean are wavering through the courtyard towards him. He pulls out a cigarette, laying the packet on his thigh, and lights it with a lighter he’d found on the bar. It reads: ‘Dirty Bitch’ in red lettering.

Dean stops in front of him, Seamus’ half draped over his shoulder. "We’re going back, mate. Are you coming? Cos Terry ’s gone off with some brunette and Zabini’s having a Slytherin three-way in there.” Dean points his thumb over his other shoulder, in the general direction of the club, swaying slightly forward from the weight on his back. He braces a hand against the potted palm pot Harry has just thrown up in.

“Y—you go. I'll finish this and make my way...back,” Harry replies lazily. He lounges further against the fence behind his bench, blowing out a cloud of smoke as he shuts his eyes, trying to re-focus them; they’re watering from the assault of the smoke machines in the club and from the cigarette smoke out here— _stinging._

Harry sits there for what feels likes minutes but when he reopens his eyes, Seamus and Dean are nowhere to be found and the remainder of his forgotten cigarette has burned down to the filter. The courtyard is mostly empty; the couple who were coupling are gone, as well as the group of lads under the parasol. In fact, there are only a fifth of the occupants left outside. How long has he been out here?

Harry tries to stand, using the potted palm’s trunk for support and shoving himself upright. He sways somewhat as he stuffs his battered packet of cigarettes back in his jeans pocket, but gratefully stays on his feet. He glances around one more time, feeling rather dissociate and tired, rubbing a hand through his hair with a sigh. Then he slowly moves to venture back inside the main building.

 

†††

 

   Re-entering the club takes a lot more effort than it should have really. The music is still blaring but the space isn’t half as full, just like outside, and the table where Harry'd previously been sat at is now empty—apart from the abandoned bottles and smashed glasses on the floor from when Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini had started dancing, wand there’s a bar-hand on their hands and knees, picking up the whole bottles from the floor whilst trying to avoid shards of the broken ones.

Harry looks around the forsaken place, wonders where everyone is. He already knows that Dean and Seamus have returned to the hotel, that Boot’s gone off with some floozy, but what about Zabini? And Malfoy? Harry wonders if all three snakes have gone back to the hotel together—Dean had mentioned that they were having an all Slytherin party earlier—and his stomach twists at the thought of Zabini’s hands running across Malfoy’s skin. It’s irrational, Harry knows, to feel this way about a person you haven’t seen in five years. That you weren’t, what you would call, on friendly terms with before that. But rationality isn’t something that’s usually associated with Harry, is it?

He makes his way unsteadily towards the front doors of the club, his shoes slipping on some spilt liquor so that he has to grab a hold of a nearby chair to halt his impending fall. A couple of girls stagger passed on their way out, arms linked, heels in hands as they continue to sing with the music. They laugh at Harry’s misfortune, a snort of giggles as they fall over themselves to look at him, and Harry sneers back with as much dignity as possible considering the situation. The girls leave, their cackles following, and Harry appreciates the privacy so he can rub at his inner thigh. He thinks he may have pulled it when he’d slipped as it twinges slightly when he moves. He curses, giving his leg a stretch so he can continue on. It does hurt, but it’s bearable.

He’s almost at the exit when a soft drawl drifts through the rumbling bass. “Potter? Now just where have you been hiding?"

Malfoy is lounged on another backrest, nearer to the entrance of the club, legs spread wide with a boot propped up on a stool. He holds the bottle of Champagne that Harry had bought for him in his hands, dangling it before his crotch as though he’s using it to draw attention to the subtle outline of his cock. He's picking at the foil wrapping around the bottleneck, eyes flicking between his fingers and Harry’s face.

Harry licks his lips, advancing a step towards the blonde as though compelled. “Er, outside," he says as he stops a few feet away.

“Hmm? I would have thought you’d have found a pretty, little ginger to go home with.” Malfoy chuckles at his own joke, lifting the large bottle to his lips.

“And I assumed you’d be with, Zabini,” Harry snaps as he leans forward to brace himself against the back of a chair. He can't seem to help the bitter tone that the statement comes out with, but watching Malfoy’s perfectly prominent Adam’s Apple bob repeatedly in the way that it is is making him feel insanely jealous again.

Malfoy smirks, tilting his head as he offers out the bottle. “Oh, how we’re both wrong.”

Harry hesitates but eventually takes the pro-offered bottle, unintentionally brushing his fingers over Malfoy's. The blonde's lips twitch. “Blaise has decided to take Pansy back to the Bay Royal tonight,” he says after a moment, eyes on Harry’s mouth.

Harry snorts. “Not your turn tonight?” He raises the bottle to his lips, just so he can break eye contact. The bottle’s quite heavy and it takes both hands to raise it for the last remnants. Malfoy’s chuckling when he lowers it.

“I knew you were watching. The other night.” Malfoy grins, shuffling forward on the leather booth and pulling his boot free from it’s pedestal.

Harry looks at him, studies his blithe face. “How?”

“Lets just say I’m quite attuned to you after sixth year.”

“I didn’t do anything sixth year,” Harry mutters feebly—because he knows that it’s a patent lie. He takes another sip of Champagne, casting his gaze away from Malfoy, even as he hands the bottle back.

Malfoy leans forward to take it. “Hmm. Of course not. You just followed me around all year,” he titters before taking a drink, his tongue poking out to dip into the bottle’s rim just as Harry is turning back to face him.

Harry’s breath hitches, his gaze finally captivated by that enticing mouth. Yet even then, he can’t help but murmur, “with good reason.” It’s automatic, his response. It’s an argument he’s stubbornly held onto, even against Ron and Hermione, and he’s usually satisfied when they concede that yes, he was right. But in this instance, he regrets speaking it almost immediately as Malfoy’s beautifully open face shutters. Harry curses his own stupidity; he wants the other Malfoy back. He sighs. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

“Such is life, don’t you think?” Malfoy shrugs, face impassive. He gulps the remainder of the Champagne before thunking the empty bottle down on a table beside him.

Harry nods. “Yeah.”

They stay in shared silence for a moment, Malfoy staring off at the sparse dance floor where most of the drunken patrons are more clinging to each other and swaying rather than dancing. The lights of the club illuminate Malfoy a shade of vivid pink, softening his brow and enhancing the shadow between and below his lips. Harry’s transfixed by the bewitchingly plump things, by the way they curve out and glisten where the Champagne still clings to them. He wants to know if they feel as silken and soft as they appear, whether he’ll be able to feel the indistinct creases running through them, particularly on that bottom one. He notices that the dainty, little wrinkles stretch out and almost disappear as the lips move, shape to form words, words he isn't listening to—

Malfoy nudges him with the toe of his boot. “Potter?”

Harry inhales sharply. Feels a slight throb on his shin and wonders just how long Malfoy’s been trying to get his attention. “Sorry, what?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes exasperatedly, but smirks. “I said, do you wish to dance?” He looks hopeful, excited at the prospect as he glances out at the dance floor and then back at Harry. His smirk turns to a genuine smile with a hint of teeth, and Harry is almost tempted to say “yes.”

He shakes his head, however. "No. No thanks, Malfoy. I, er. I think I should go.” He’s never been one for dancing anyway but being in such close proximity to Malfoy, of having to touch, even a little, would be too much. He shifts to leave but Malfoy is instantly reaching up to stop him. He’s out of his seat and on his feet before Harry can even turn, his long, pale fingers wrapping around Harry’s wrist again, marginally crawling up his forearm before letting it drop.

“Potter,” he starts lowly. And it sounds so different to how it once had. No more is it spat with spite, the ‘P’ harshly ground out and the ‘Ts’ stuttered with disdain. No, now it rolls off Malfoy’s tongue like a breathy plea, beseeching and promising in a way that can only come from Malfoy’s mouth.

“I know that we've been through a lot, that we have bad history. I've done some pretty awful… incomprehensible things. But please understand, Potter. I was young and scared... And I _am_ sorry.” Malfoy turns away as though to compose himself, runs a hand over his mouth and face and Harry wants to reach out and take it, to reassure Malfoy that Harry does understand. It may have taken a few years but yes, he understands.

“I just think that we could....We're adults now, after all, and the years have passed, leaving the past in the past… I just. I want to try and be your friend, maybe?” Past regret, Malfoy holds out the hand that he’d held over his face, it trembles slightly and he looks unsure; it’s a gesture taking them both back thirteen years, though the situation is entirely contrary.

Harry considers that it is seeing Malfoy devoid of his usual eloquence that is what drives Harry forward. He tells himself that he’s simply being polite, that this moment means nothing as he guardedly reaches out and slots his own hand perfectly into Malfoy's. But when he peers up into Malfoy’s mystified gaze staring down at their joined limps, he knows he is lying to himself, that this is just as fundamentally pivotal to the blonde as it is him. He tightens his hold, his fingers digging into the back of Malfoy’s hand and feeling a few minute veins there. The skin on Malfoy’s palm is damp with sweat, feels slick and warm, and Harry wonders what it would feel like running up his chest if he invited the blonde back to his lonely hotel room tonight.

Merlin, he needs to leave. He needs to go before he does something he’s likely to regret come morning.

But his hand is caught within the tight grasp of Malfoy's now, and he's being dragged towards the dance floor, strobe lights flashing around him and the bass vibrating in his chest. "I—I don't dance. You were there at the Yule ball,” Harry tries to protest weakly, even as he follows Malfoy obediently.

Malfoy snorts, turns to face him. “I’m not asking you to Waltz, Potter. Just, put your arms around me.”

Harry can’t though. He can’t allow this, it’s too much. “What about, Zabini? Won’t he be jealous?”

Malfoy shakes his head as the bass runs low and the atmospheric tempo becomes more sedate. He snakes his arms around Harry’s waist: one hand shifting to settle on the very top of his tailbone, the other sliding up into the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

_"Pretty green eyes, so full of sparkle and such light. And let me remind, that you chose not to cry. And its all right, for your lover has come home. By your side I'll always stay, you never have to be alone—"_

"I think you have this misconception about Blaise and I, Potter," Malfoy whispers as his hips begin to sway and swirl with the music, inching closer to Harry with each movement. Harry moves his own hands to limply embrace Malfoy’s waist; his futile attempt at keeping this as impersonal as possible.

_“You never have to be alone—”_

“Do I?” Harry can’t help but ask, observing as Malfoy curves his spine so he can twirl his hips more prominently, and Harry finds his hands moving with their own conviction, brushing down to nestle low on the blonde’s pelvis, thumps stroking the muscled grooves there.

_“You never have to be alone. Pretty green eyes, so full of wonder and despair. Its all right to cry, for I'll be there to wipe your tears. And in your arms, together we're in paradise. And it’s so nice, you'll never have to be alone—”_

Circe, but Malfoy's stunningly aesthetic, isn’t he? Drawing Harry in with his naturally licentious adroitness, and Harry has never felt so at peace, so content, as he does right now on this mauve dance floor. “Hmm, we’re not lovers,” Malfoy murmurs against Harry’s cheek, his face so incredibly close that Harry can see his intensely large pupils expanding right before him, glittering in the strobes above them.

_“You never have to be alone—”_

“No?” Harry exhales.

“No,” the blonde confirms with a contented smile, closing his eyes and dropping his head back to display an unblemished, pastel pink neck; a blank canvas that Harry unjustly wants to latch his lips onto and suck, wants to sink his teeth into and mark as his own.

_“You never have to be alone—“_

“I haven’t had a relationship since fourth year,” Malfoy continues as he moves back nearer to Harry. He gently runs the pad of his thumb along Harry's cheekbone, the trail of it burning into Harry’s skin, even as it feels clammy in the overly heated room. “Blaise was simply scratching an itch.”

_“You never have to be alone—”_

The hips beneath Harry's touch inch impossibly closer, press forward onto his length and causes him to hiss at the unexpected shockwave of pleasure from it. His nerve endings are on fire, tingling with galvanised need, and he knows he should move away, tell Malfoy that they can’t—that they shouldn’t do this. But instead he grips Malfoy’s hips harder and pulls them flush against his own. “So he isn’t your boyfriend?”

_"You never have to be alone. Pretty green eyes, so full of sparkle and such light. Let me remind, that you chose not to cry. And its all right, for your lover has come home. By your side I'll always stay, you never have to be alone—"_

“No. It’s just been—a while. He’s a good friend,” Malfoy breaths along Harry’s lips, his steel gaze flicking between them and Harry’s own piercing orbs. Harry can feel himself getting hard, can see when Malfoy notices, pushing his own half hard cock against Harry’s so that all breath leaves him in a rush. It's been too long, far too long.

_“You never have to be alone—“_

“Fuck, Malfoy.” Harry has to pivot, brace his weight on the hard body encircling him as his knees go weak and threaten to give out right from beneath him. He puffs hot breaths onto the pale neck that had looked so inviting mere seconds ago, trying to breathe through the prickling heat of his imminent orgasm as he feels it clawing up from the depths of his soul. His hands cup the plush mounds of Malfoy’s delectable arse so he can feel the muscles flex as Malfoy moves sensually against him, feels the hand on his tailbone descend lower—a long, nimble finger teasing down his crack, over his jeans—and Harry is sure he's about to come.

That thought alone is disorienting, unbelievable; coming to the alluring press of Draco Malfoy against him. And then Malfoy is singing, whispering into his ear as he runs the pad of his thumb over Harry’s parted, bottom lip, “Pretty green eyes, so full of wonder and despair. Its all right to cry, for I'll be there to wipe your tears. And in your arms, together we're in paradise. And it’s so nice, you'll never have to be alone—”

 _“Malfoy—“_ Harry almost whimpers onto Malfoy’s shoulder as he feels his heavy balls draw up against his body, his grip punishing on that still flexing arse.

“Last order’s," comes a surly voice somewhere to Harry's right, shouted over the low din of the club, and Harry could scream as he looks over.

It's the bouncer who’d stamped Harry’s hand earlier in the night, and it looks like the club is getting ready to close; all the bar staff have now abandoned the bar and have started clearing tables and sweeping the floor. Harry feels the hand on his neck tighten as it tugs him forward so that his lips hover in front of Malfoy’s. He’s so embittered, ungratified as he stares into that beauteous molten gaze, and despite his earlier reluctance, Harry doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want this feeling to be ripped away from him. He tries to articulate that in a stutter against Malfoy’s mouth but the blonde speaks over him.

“Good night, Potter," he murmurs with a prudent smile. “I’ll hope to see you again.” Then he squeezes Harry’s neck one last time, turns on his heel and strolls away with the heavy thuds of his boots echoing around the now dull club, arse swaying delightfully in those grey, skinny jeans. He picks up the gifted Champagne bottle on his way passed and Harry is surprised to see the bouncer allowing him to take it.

Harry watches him leave, stays rooted to the spot as he grants his body the time to calm and his cock to deflate, telling it mentally “stand down, false alarm.” He gives himself another minute before he exhales heavily and strives to exit the club. The bouncer nods to him as he leaves and he stumbles out into the street.

Grey dawn light stings his eyes after being in the dark for so long—he hadn’t realised just how early it had become—and the harbour is rife with seagulls and fisherman starting out the day, and Harry makes his way over to look around. He tells himself he’s just enjoying the morning air, that he’s curious as to the goings on on the small sea vessels, but he knows, at the back of his mind, that he’s trying to discern which way Malfoy has gone. It’s pointless, he knows, as he’d waited too long, and he sighs, pulling out his packet of cigarettes and ignites one after a few clicks with his stolen lighter.

With one last look over the River Esk, at the Whitby Abbey, Harry turns on his heel and makes his way back to the hotel.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll try and upload the next chapter in a week’s time again, but I’m going to be pretty busy for a while so apologies in advance if I’m a little late x


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that this is so late, RL kind of got in the way as my body seems to hate itself. 
> 
> Anyway, for those of you who remember when I last published this story, this chapter is one of the main ones to have a complete makeover (to the point that it’s completely brand new lol.) 
> 
> And there is no art with this chapter I’m afraid as I still need to finish a piece for the next one seen as I’ve been away.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it anyhow,
> 
> Annie x

   The lucent sphere is distorted and blurred, it’s edges bleeding into the black abyss surrounding it and greying the more that Harry lays there and stares at it. He retrieves his glasses from the bedside cabinet—left hinge squeaking again—and shoves them onto his face, up his nose, and turns back towards the weathered window. The moon seems more intense, scintillating (if that is at all possible) and sharper around it’s curves; Harry’s sight is so much more clearer now that he can make out the darker pocks that make up the moon’s craters, can see the subtle white dots beset in the sky behind it.

He rubs a weary hand over his face and sits up, quilt dropping to pool at his waist and making his naked back and torso goose-pimple with the room’s boreal chill: his nipples hardening from the cold so he rubs a inert palm over them, sighing at the tingle that elicits.

Outside, a muffled car horn beeps, followed by raised voices then another beep, and Harry is tempted to venture over to the window for a nosey, to censure and berate the guilty party in an incandescent manner unbefitting of an Auror of his stature. Instead, he stretches with a groan, spine popping in several places, and grabs his wand to cast a quick Tempus; it’s been an hour or so since Dean had last nipped up and checked in on him. Harry huffs (he thought it had been longer) and glances briefly at the still wrapped sandwich Dean had left on the chest of drawers—it’s sweaty ham and soggy bread looking at him forlornly as it sags in the bag—right before Dean had informed him that there were talks of going out again tonight.

At the time, Harry had ignored him, choosing to lay under the quilt and feign sleep; he’s been dozing on and off for most of the day after arriving back at the hotel around 7am and, annoyingly, Seamus and Dean have each taken it in turns to check in on him, though only Dean found it paramount to enter the room and disturb Harry further. Harry had warded the door after the last time—the sandwich bringing—as he’d finally had enough, he wasn’t in the mood to be going anywhere or dealing with _people._

Another aggravated shout is what makes Harry ultimately push himself out of the comfort of his floral sheets, slamming the window shut on his way passed as he twaddles over to the ensuite. He switches on the light with a pained moan; the muted light hurts his eyes and he feels nauseated and dizzy all over again, like he's out on the harbour on one of those tiny fishing boats that he’d been admiring that very morning. His mouth tastes like he's been eating hippogriff dung, his tongue feeling claggy and swollen, and his lips are so dry that he has to deliberately peel them apart. The colossal headache that he thought he’d fought off earlier is back with a vengeance, and even though he doesn't want to mix pain potions with his own he forces himself to search through the bathroom cabinet for one.

He finds one behind a mood stabiliser, pulls it out carefully, heedful of the other glass bottles, then shuts the cabinet with a soft click. Merlin, but he looks like utter shit, doesn’t he? It's a small blessing that this is a Muggle hotel, Harry thinks, otherwise the mirror would be insulting him right now. He runs a hand through his rumpled hair, getting his little finger caught in a knot before huffing in defeat.

“Fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he leans forward to peer more intently at the speckled mirror.

His skin looks sallow and waxy across his forehead and jaw, his cheeks flushed an unhealthy pink that resembles more of a rash that a true blush, and there are dark semi-circles underscoring his blood shot eyes. He looks absolutely shocking and he considers whether or not he’d had a few smokes before bed when he’d gotten back this morning. It would explain why he’s felt so ailing all day—more so than having an inconsequential hangover—and why he resembles the leftover’s of one of Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts.

“Well, aren’t I glad I didn’t go,” Harry tells his reflection, uncorking the vial in his hand and knocking it back.

"Shit." He squeezes his temples as they throb while the pain potion burns through to his nervous system, slowly numbing it, and the room sways rigorously around him as the potion takes affect. It’s almost comparable to being mildly high, the way the potion makes everything seem far away, fuzzy, like Harry’s stepped out of his own body and is floating.

After a minute or so, he sighs in relief and unsteadily retreats back into the bedroom, plonking down on the bed’s edge with a breathy exhale and a bounce, and squints through his treasured window. The marred streaks on the glass appear worse now that the moon is glaring directly through them, and Harry can see particles of dust dancing in the silver beam as they try to seek out purchase on some form of solid-surface.

The subtle light illuminates a patch of carpet near the foot of the bed, glinting off of something inside Harry’s tussled duffle bag. It takes a moment for Harry to recognise his Buck-hunter knife, laid innocently atop a pair of screwed up boxers. He leisurely shuffles over to extract it, flicking it open to reveal a polished silver gilt blade.

It’s stunning, almost delicate with it’s thinly sharpened edge, but it can cause so much destruction when used properly, Harry knows. His grip tightens around the brass and carved wood handle as the flash of silver in moonlight evokes a recollection of beatific molten eyes that had flashed rose gold under the epileptic stream of fuchsia toned strobes, memories of an endearingly wicked smirk whispering sweet nothings into his ear as prurient hands wandered down his body. Those eyes, though, had appeared so prepossessing and ethereal, yet had destroyed years worth of Harry’s defences of cynicism, sexual abnegation and lack of self worth in a matter of moments—much like the destructive potential of the Buck-hunter, Harry muses, but not quite.

With eyes falling shut, Harry recounts the way Malfoy had slowly ground against him as he'd sung about pretty green eyes, had clung to Harry's neck and back, entrancing Harry's cock like an Egyptian snake charmer. A part of him improperly supplies that he should be ashamed of myself for acting like a cheap Knockturn Ally whore when it obviously didn't mean as much to Malfoy as it did him, that Malfoy is just an overly touchy drunk. Yet another part of him, a smaller part admittedly, craves to see Malfoy again, to see if he has the same effect on Harry without a distillery worth of alcohol in them both.

But that’s madness, Harry deems, to think (or maybe hope) that there is something probable between them. It’s like his seven years at Hogwarts didn’t happen the way he remembers, that what had transpired between him and Malfoy is all a malevolent fabrication of his mind. Merlin, Harry could scream he feels so conflicted. He knows that six years ago—hell, even a year or so ago with Harry’s outlook at the time—it would be have been improbable for him and Malfoy to be in the same vicinity without a hex or two flying, and now Harry is seriously considering the possibility of whether it’s worth pursuing this new development to see where it could lead.

Graciously, his mind provides him with the efficacious memory of Malfoy with his head tossed back and lips parted in contented bliss as a kaleidoscope of lights danced across his skin, and Harry can feel his cock start to take an interest, swelling and lifting from the nestle of his balls with that familiar yet neglected throbbing hum that burns lowly through his pelvis and up he’s spine like liquid fire.

He reaches down with grudging fingers, his touch feather light and merciful as he drags them unhurriedly along his tightening jeans, his breath hitching at the initial contact. Merlin, but this is wrong, isn’t it, he thinks vaguely as his hand starts to tremor, fingers curling into a resistant fist and pulling away. His belated sanity can only agree as his head abruptly fills, unfairly, with the imagine of Zabini and Malfoy rutting against one another outside this very room. And it hurts, it hurts all the way from Harry’s chest to his shaking hands. His heartbeat runs erratic like the onset of a panic attack, and his hand stings—urticates unpleasantly, intensifying to the point that Harry needs to look—

He stares down unblinkingly at his fingers, clutched tightly around the bottom half of the Buck-hunter blade where his sweaty palm has slipped along the handle. Blood is seeping through, dripping down onto the floral duvet beneath—just a small array of crimson dots staining the vibrant blue blue-bells and white background.

“Buggering fuck!” Harry abruptly tosses the blade back into his duffle bag and wipes his hand across the bed sheet (it’s ruined anyway) before scrambling for his wand to cast a hasty healing charm. _“Tergeo,”_ he murmurs, and it does the trick. The weeping of blood ceases, vanishes, the gash partially healing. So he casts a few cleaning charms next and moves hastily to find whatever unsullied clothing he has, uncaring as to what disaster he’ll undoubtedly put together.

Then, he’s out of his room, the hotel, Malfoy’s lecherous streetlamp light, and striding towards the steps leading down towards Khyber Pass within ten minutes, his thigh muscles burning with the strain of his sudden need to rush.

The air is heavy and crisp around him, and Harry is glad he’d decided to grab a jacket instead of his coat on the way out; the warm morning has given way to a humid evening with the dark sky above streaked in hues of watercolour reds and bronzes, indicating that tomorrow should be another warm day for September.

His feet carry him blindly along the paved walkways and tarmac roads towards the old town, the stale smell of salt and fish pervading his senses the nearer he gets to the harbour. The tenuous ripples of the current against the swing bridge’s stilts washing over him.

Tonight, the pubs this side of the harbour are just as heaving as the clubs on the other side and the destination Harry is undeviatingly strolling towards is so full to capacity that people have resorted to spilling out into the beer garden and street; plastic cups are stacked up or discarded on window sills and benches, cigarette butts littering the sidewalk around the pub entrance and cars are parked illegally along the double yellow lines of the road.

Dean had mentioned that they would be meeting the Slytherins here, that they would be staying until closing (which is usually 11:30pm for a pub.) But whether that plan is still viable, Harry is about to find out. Through the small doors at the front of the pub, he can make out a dimly lit room crammed with bodies. Lights flash at random intervals in tones of white and red, but it isn’t as hypnotic and dizzying as the nightclub from the night before. The music isn’t as pounding either, though Harry thinks that is probably because there seems to be a live band playing rather than a DJ.

He pushes forward, through a group of blokes stood congregated at the entrance, and makes his way along a small passage that leads into the larger, open room he observed. There are old wooden tables and chairs scattered about the space, stained or torn beer mats on every one, and a small stage is set up on the left where a band of five are playing and singing to the crowd at large.

The bar is tucked away to the right, surrounded by multi-coloured bottle glass set in mahogany wood, and more dark mahogany panelling decorates the majority of the pub’s lower walls; Harry can make out where tables have been dragged across the hardwood and left claw-like marks in linear swipes. The only plastered walls are bruised with various dints from thrown glasses and punches—made worse in the flashing lights—and the carpet is a psychedelic brand of burgundy, green and beige, threadbare around the doorway and bar area.

The back of the pub is snug alongside the harbour, and the glittering water reflects up onto a wooden balcony which runs along the full width of the building in a luminous display of curling veins that interlock and swirl with the incoming tide. The balcony is easily accessible due to a collection of bi-folding glass doors, all open along the decking and emitting that gritty salt scent one can only find at the seaside. Overall, it looks serene, arresting with its bushy explosion of hanging baskets and solar lights, and Harry is sorely tempted to buy himself a lager and go procure a table out there.

Begrudgingly, he turns away; it’s too light and open back there and he’ll be easily seen, which isn’t exactly the purpose of his visit.

He lurks in a shaded area near the entrance side of the bar, pulling up his coat collar as though that could hide him any better, and scans the dense crowd for a familiar head of white blonde hair. He’s no idea why he’s come here really, if Harry is being completely honest with himself, why he needs to see Malfoy just to reassure himself, but here he is. He could put it down to platonic curiosity, that he just wants to see him for the sake of it, but he’d be lying to himself, somewhere, deep down, he’d be lying; it’s almost like comparing his walk into the Forbidden Forest to die at the age of seventeen to walking into HoneyDuke’s to buy a bag of Treacle Fudge, this fixation with Malfoy; there is nothing chaste about it, and Harry really isn’t sure how he feels about that yet.

He moves further into the din, gaze sharp as he takes in random faces. It’s a bit difficult with the low lights and with how packed it is; people are constantly moving and bobbing with the guitar rifts coming from the band on stage, growing rowdier when the opening rifts to ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ begin to play.

A bloke pushes in beside Harry so he can get to the bar. He smiles appreciatively, drunkenly, as he hobbles over so Harry nods politely and meanders further down the wooden counter, towards the balcony, but till trying to be convert. He’s constantly scanning the crowd whilst trying to stay inconspicuous, but this side of the room is sparser due to most of the patrons trying to cram onto the balcony. And fortunately, or not, because of that, Harry easily spots Pansy Parkinson as she makes her way over to the bar where he’s stood, her hair swinging forward as she walks and obscuring her view somewhat as she stares at the floor, probably looking for any slippery spills to avoid. She's holding a plastic cup containing the dregs of some sort of plum coloured liquor, and Harry dithers on whether he should move. He decides that yes he probably should but he’s dallied too long and it’s obviously too late to flee.

“Potter?” Harry sighs dejectedly at the ominous voice, pausing mid-spin so he can peer over is shoulder. Parkinson is staring nonplus as she continues on her trek to the bar, stopping beside him but keeping as much distance as she can in the crammed space. “You’re not contagious are you?” She asks with a scrunch of her nose, plonking her plastic cup on the bar top.

Harry looks at her and frowns. “What?”

“Thomas said you were ill.” Parkinson’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, er. Yeah, I wasn’t feeling too good earlier.”

The scrutinising gaze doesn’t waver as Parkinson studies him, and Harry suddenly feels decidedly uncomfortable. He’s grateful when a bar hand finally comes to take Parkinson’s order: Lager and black, and Harry can’t quite hide his astonished stupefaction at just how plebeian that is for her.

“So, had too much to drink yesterday did we?” She asks with a smirk as she turns to him, propping an elbow up on the bar so she can lean, red fingernails tapping against the wood.

Harry tilts his head. “I suppose,” he concedes.

The barmaid returns and Harry uses the opportunity to scan the people in the direction of where Parkinson had come from. He makes out Seamus stood with a pint in hand, and who is probably Dean slouched against the wall beside him. There’s no blonde head of hair there though, and no Zabini Harry notes with rolling agitation. He reluctantly moves his gaze back to Parkinson, just as she receives her change: a fiver that she folds and shoves into her bra, before lifting and tapping her bust as though she’s fluffing a pillow.

“I’d offer you a drink but I’m not going to.” She smiles devilishly and takes a sip of her pint.

Harry wants to tell her that she’s left behind a purple, foamy tash when she pulls the cup away, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “that’s okay. I’m fine, thanks.”

Parkinson smirks again, runs a thumb across her lip to gather the wet there before sucking it into her mouth, eyeing Harry all the while with look too calculating for his liking. Still, Harry simply stands there, not one to be cowed so easily, and watches impassively as she pulls the digit free with an obscene pop, stepping closer to him so that Harry has to lean back slightly. “Hmm, I—“

“Pans! I thought—“

Harry peeks over Parkinson’s shoulder and finds the object of his search there, wide eyed and beautifully startled—regardless, Harry’s unsure as to what to do with it now that it’s here. (He probably shouldn’t refer to Malfoy as an object for a start, Harry tells himself firmly, he doubts the blonde would appreciate that.)

Malfoy recovers quickly enough from his temporary torpor, a clear mask of indifference settling over his features as he continues to stare. His eyes minutely flicker between the pair, so subtle you wouldn’t catch it unless you were as acutely aware as Harry evidently is. He lets his gaze rake over Malfoy’s body as furtive as he can; tonight Malfoy’s gifted Harry with a superb view of his stunningly lean legs donned in black skinny jeans that are ripped artfully at the knees and thighs, a black satin shirt that is open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, stretched tight across his shoulders and chest, tucked in at his narrow waist and shimmering with every move and breath of Malfoy’s stomach. He has the same chunky New Rock's on from last night and his eyes are outlined in soft kohl, half smudged down his face as though he's rubbed his eyes at some point during the night. As always, it seems, he looks stunning.

“Darling,” Parkinson purrs as she spins around to face Malfoy, her face split into the smuggest grin as she leans in to murmur something into Malfoy’s ear.

Whatever it is lights Malfoy up like a Christmas tree the way he beams, his eyes bright and dazed, shining in a passing strobe from the stage, and Harry unreasonably seethes that Parkinson had achieved that and not him. He studies Malfoy’s profile while he stands there, admires his wonderfully long limbs and perfect skin, watching as Malfoy stretches his neck to hear Parkinson better, that stunning expanse of rice paper skin fluttering with the beat of his pulse just below his ear, and all Harry wants to do is lean forward and mar it, to wrap his lips around it and suck until it’s bruised; mark what is his.

He freezes instantly, mind reeling, only Malfoy isn’t his, is he? Could never be, if Harry was thinking clearly. And impetuously, he isn’t— he could call it temporary insanity if he wanted but he was diagnosed with a lot worse way before his first sight of this new Malfoy so he doubts that that is good reasoning. He bites his bottom lip in habit and tries to discreetly rearrange himself under the flaps of jacket, tilting away slightly to give himself more cover. He can't believe he's getting hard again in public—for Malfoy. And he isn't even drunk, not remotely.

Merlin, what is it that the blonde possesses that’s so alluring? Harry's not seen him since just after the final battle, and back then he had looked so wain and defeated, his grey robes—from dust—hanging from his body and revealing deep-hollowed collarbones and pasty skin. His face had been streaked with dirt and the dried tear tracks running down his face had looked stark and unseemly, unbecoming of the Malfoy he knew, the one who had plagued and taunted him for over half a decade at school.

And Harry hasn't thought of him much since that day, apart from taking the time to write that letter for his trial (the one they didn’t receive, apparently.) And sure, he's sometimes wondered what the blonde was doing with his free (if not totally) life now that Harry had helped him avoid Azkaban—even though he hadn’t—but those were usually the nights when Harry would sit alone at the kitchen table in Grimmauld Place, a bottle of Ogden’s in one hand and spliff in the other. Those were the nights he’d think about everything, and wonder just what was the purpose of his life.

In front of him, the conversation seems to have ended between the Slytherins and Parkinson is sashaying away, tight dress bunching around her thighs as the material stretches to accommodate her legs, leaving Malfoy and himself alone.

Malfoy clears his throat, attempting haughty but failing completely as he slurs, “he-hello, Potter.” He stumbles over his own boots when the crowd shifts behind him, latching onto Harry’s jacket lapels so he does’t fall, and Harry’s heart sinks as Malfoy chuckles against his chest; a vibration of disappointing mirth.

Harry sighs, a drunken Malfoy won’t help him figure out whether this is something worth pursuing or just fanciful on the blonde’s part. Harry already knows that he wants Malfoy, wants to take this where ever it can go (even though he shouldn’t, his mind screams unhinged) but he won’t pursue it without any evidentiary support, maybe it’s the Auror in him that’s making him cautious.

“Would y’ like a drink, Potter?” Malfoy peers up through fuddled eyes, glazed, with pupils widening even as Harry stares back.

Harry wraps his fingers tightly around Malfoy’s delicate wrists, meaning to prise the blonde’s grip from his person so he can create some distance, he needs the space. “Er, no. I cant stay,” he mumbles as he intricately shoves Malfoy up and away, feeling the petit bones in Malfoy’s wrist shift and grind slightly. “I’ve, er, got to do a patrol. Head Auror orders, you know?” Harry doesn’t, obviously, but how is he to tell Malfoy that he can’t be around the blonde like this? That this ensorcellment quandary is something he isn’t quite prepared for?

Malfoy acquiesces, seems to come back to himself after Harry’s mendacity, drawing himself up, eyes shuttering as he takes a stumbling step backwards. His chuckles die into the music and shouting around them. “Oh.”

It sounds like a question but Harry isn’t sure whether it is supposed be. Malfoy looks miffed and somewhat disappointed before he sniffs haughtily (achieving it this time) and takes in a quick study of the room, leaving Harry to eye the side of his face, his jutting jaw and the deep shadow beneath.

“So, er, yeah. I best get going. Uh, I’ll see you around, Malfoy, I guess.” Harry turns abruptly and scrambles away as fast as he can, shoes skirting on the grubby carpet as he pushes through the crowd until he reaches the outside kerb. He doubles over, sweaty hands clinging to his knees as he struggles to suck in deep lungfuls of air, and one of the blokes he’d passed at the entrance on his way into the pub gruffly asks if he’s okay. Harry can only nod, eyes fixed on the debris and sand littering the gutter he’s hovering over. Merlin, what is wrong with him? Anyone would think Malfoy had sniped him, besieged some form of incursion into Harry’s personal space (which Harry supposes he did with the grabbing), but it wasn’t unwelcome. Quite the contrary, Harry had savoured it for a brief moment as he’d felt the heat emitting from Malfoy’s fingers twisted in his coat and shirt, had appreciated the citrusy aroma of the blonde’s shampoo and the sweet tang of what ever liquor he’d been drinking before Harry had realised the inauspicious plight of it all.

Harry sighs and straightens himself, tugging at the bottom of his shirt and running a tremulous hand through his hair. He turns back towards the pub, intends to have one last look before returning to the hotel, but Malfoy is no longer stood where they were at the bar; he’s moved further towards the balcony and is talking to Parkinson and a dark haired man Harry doesn’t recognise, head thrown back with howling laughter as the man leans in to say more.

Well shit, Harry thinks as he stalks back towards the pub, irrationally enraged as he glares at the man’s hand now resting on Malfoy’s forearm, thick, beefy fingers wrapping around the alabaster skin there. Recklessly, Harry casts a discrete Disillusionment Charm on his way through the narrow passage back into the pub, hoping that the patrons near enough to notice the faint light will assume it’s a passing car. He shoves through the throng as a cacophony of shouts, drums and clanking glasses assault his ears—if anything the music blearing through the numerous speakers around the dim space seems louder now that the band has finished and is packing, the crowd being rowdier and more boisterous now that the majority of it is three sheets to the wind.

“Request it! R-request it!” A sozzled, lanky and pale lad dressed all in black, complete with long black hair and eyeliner nudges his equally clad friend in front of Harry and towards the bar, causing Harry to lose sight of Malfoy in order to avoid a privy collision. Harry steps around the darkly donned group, hellbent on stalking the blonde near the balcony. Overhead the synth punk notes of Siouxsie and the Banshees ceases and is replaced by a deep, rhythmic pounding of drums.

Most of the younger patrons—and a few older—cheer and clap at the newest track, Malfoy and his friend included as Parkinson backs away from them like she’s smelled something sour; she shakes her head and downs the remainder of her drink just as Zabini appears to hand her another.

Harry cautiously approaches the intimate group, stalking around Malfoy and the dark haired man hanging off of his arm as Malfoy gleefully tips his head back and roars, “Ooh-ah-ah-ah-ah!” Then the guitars kick in and Malfoy is jumping, stomping his heavy boots in time with most of the pub as they ‘sing,’ and Harry is confident that no one of Malfoy’s stature should be able to bellow and thrash in the way that he is, head moshing and bobbing, arms akimbo as he shouts at the ceiling.

_“Looking at my own reflection, when suddenly, it changes! Violently, it changes!”_

Flabbergasted, Harry stares, utterly transfixed from his clandestine place just behind Parkinson and Zabini, precisely avoiding Seamus and Dean as they meander passed to get to the bar, hand in hand so they don’t lose each other in the chaos, as Malfoy looks completely in his element, more jocose and affable than he did at the nightclub. He laughs and yells, grinning like he’s just been offered a million galleons for simply existing, and by rights, he should look a complete fool, bouncing around like a child and stamping his boots, but all it does is fortify his virile manner, personifies his beauty, and all Harry wants to do is shove him up against the bar and wrap those long, never ending legs around his waist.

Merlin, but this Malfoy is so beyond different to the one Harry'd grown up with, what with his nonchalance, bold confidence and flirtatious demeanour, he's practically sex on legs. And Harry wants him, so much. Hades and his Cerberus, how Harry wants him.

But then the dark haired twat is stretching out his hand as though he intends to embrace Malfoy’s waist, his stubby, bitten fingernails inching closer, and without thinking, Harry flicks his wand again (which is still rammed up his shirt sleeve) to send a little hex towards the man’s feet, causing him to trip over nothing and fall spectacularly on his face. Joyously, Malfoy does nothing to help the man, simply laughs and jumps right into the next song, which if Harry remembers from Sirius’ album collection is Ram Jam’s Black Betty; one his favourites to drink Ogden’s Single-Smoked Barrel Whiskey to while reminiscing through his prized photo album and dancing right along side Sirius, Remus and his dad as they sing this very song on what appears to be his dad’s 18th birthday.

Malfoy smiles as he bobs and shakes his head, blonde hair falling loose from the disorderly knot at the back of his head, and Harry stares on in awe, silently praising the day he came across his Godfather’s mighty collection of vinyls and photos. There’s something nostalgic about Malfoy liking the same music as the marauders, something yearning in the way he sings and moves reminiscent of James in that photograph. Harry’s breath leaves him in a rush and he has to grapple for purchase on the folded door behind him in order to stop himself from reaching out and just touching.

Seamus and Dean push by him a moment later, hands and arms filled with various bottles and cups that they hand out to the three snakes as well as, Harry frowns, the dark haired man who seems to be over his untimely humble fall. Malfoy accepts what Harry believes is a bottle of Pernod and he stuffs the tip of his index finger inside the rim, just like every Muggle authority tells you to do, before continuing to grace the make shift dance floor with his jovial presence. Harry wonders, belatedly, just how long Malfoy has lived in the Muggle world considering he’s picked up a lot of their habits and traits. He supposes it could have been a condition of his probation, that he is prohibited to enter the Wizarding world until his sentence is over. But that line of thinking only evokes a new wave of sympathy, to know that Draco Malfoy, purest Pureblood of the sacred twenty-eight, has to live in the world he was taught to despise for most of his life. It seems scandalous, immoral and wrong almost, on the surface, but when Harry glances back out at the crowd, at the dancing lithe blonde yelling lyrics to Bon Jovi, he realises that no, this is probably one of the greatest things that could have happened to Malfoy, even if the circumstances leading up to it were not. Harry smiles as he lounges more comfortably against the wood and glass behind him, mentally filling the mind-boggling information away to be used at a later date in his Malfoy conundrum.

Time passes in a dazed blur of drinking and dancing as songs play and end on a continuous loop of rock and metal (except for when Malfoy asks at the bar for Daniel Bedingfield’s Gotta Get Thru This for Parkinson. Harry will never forget the sight of forty and fifty plus aged men dressed in leather biker jackets and tassels, gruff beards down to their chests, dance to chart pop and singing along with Malfoy as he attempts to learn them the lyrics in his drunken frivolity), and soon the patrons slowly dwindle until there is a table free on the balcony for the unlikely group.

Harry watches them move outside, relishing the breeze as he turns into it, though closing his eyes at a particular gust and avoiding the grit and sand that is blown at him. He stays sulked in the shadows, just observing the way Malfoy occasional murmurs random lyrics and bobs his head when something particularly aggressive plays in the overhead speakers.

His eyes, periodically, flick over to Parkinson and Zabini where they’re sat just a little way away from the table, Parkinson on Zabini’s lap, and bites his lip dispiritedly when Zabini tucks a stray piece of hair behind Parkinson’s ear, muttering something sultry that makes her giggle like a Third Year. He turns away despondently, looking somehow hurt, before pulling up the empty chair opposite him and bracing his boots against the edge.

Harry is overwhelmed, in that moment, with the urge to make himself known, to take Malfoy by the hand and drag him over here into the shadows, to ask him what is wrong, if he’d lied when he’d said there was nothing romantic between him and Zabini.

Harry doesn’t do that, however. He can’t do that, not now, less Malfoy know he’s been stalked all night—which Harry is sure wouldn’t go down well with the blonde, or his companions. So he stays hidden in his solitary haven, just observing from afar and priding himself on his stealth charms; it was the one thing he’d failed on during the qualifying exams, he had to retake it, twice.

“Hey, Malfoy,” Seamus calls unexpectedly, hand outstretched with a glass of amber liquor. He asks if the blonde wants it in a stilted, but still friendly, manner, stating that he doesn’t like the taste, even as Dean jests that it’s simply too strong for him.

Malfoy accepts and Harry exhales shakily as Malfoy, in his strive to become more inebriated, knocks the drink back almost immediately after tilting his head in a courteous ‘thank you,’ Adam’s Apple bobbing twice with the swallow as his throat works down the, no doubt burning, liquid. Then he stretches his long legs out under the table, resting his boots on the rattan seat pad of his procured chair so he can lounge, arms crossed across his torso, and slumps down, spine curving, so his shirt comes loose from his jeans and rides up his back to reveal a sliver of pale skin and the deep crevice of muscle running from his hip bone into his waistband. And Merlin, how Harry wants to have that body against his own, to have Malfoy laid out beneath him like a wanton feast, panting hot breaths into his face as he chants Harry’s name over and over and over again: how he wants to feel those teasing lips swipe across his nipples before descending lower to lick down his stomach, following the dark line of hair leading between his legs—

It’s strange, Harry thinks, to feel this way about someone you hate (or used to, Harry repeats to himself), and wants nothing more than to allow his surreptitious feelings to just run their course and fizzle. He’s honestly fed up of his mind’s derision of it all. Before he came here, took on this mission, he was… not especially happy, but content with wallowing in his own melancholy. He had no foolish sentiments of intimacy and no contradictory notions of carnal gratification, he simply went to work, came home and got drunk. Life was straightforward, uncomplicated—meaningless he supposes—but still, effortless in the way that he had his manageable routine with no distractions. Now, Harry feels as though his whole life is falling apart due to this one person. How is it that Draco Malfoy can do this to him? Always to him?

Harry pushes himself away from his self proclaimed shadows and propels himself along the bar, not stopping until he reaches the outside and breathes in laboriously, filling his lungs until they start to smart and protest. The moon hangs huge overhead, bathing him and the surrounding buildings in monochrome light, and the breezing is whipping up through an arched alleyway nearby and whistling as it passes.

The dim street is desolate, everyone has probably moved on to the clubs across the harbour or have gone home, and Harry rearranges has jacket, tugging on the collar before making his way down towards the swing bridge. He kicks at a random pebble, wonders if a child has fetched it up from the beach and then dropped it as their parents pulled them along into the shops.

He thinks Teddy would like it here, tells himself he’ll fetch the boy whenever Harry is allowed solitary custody again; he hates having either Andromeda or the social workers there when he’s trying to enjoy his ephemeral time with his godson, it’s probably the reason why he’s not bothered in a while. He hopes Teddy will understand one day, when he’s older and is able to distinguish his grandmother’s stretched truths from the actual.

A commotion to Harry’s right has him stopping midway along the street, poised with his hand already reaching for his wand. He can’t be too hasty though, this is a Muggle area after all, and he peers over at a toppled bin that is still rolling slightly away from the overfilled others, rubbish and paper scattering across the floor and jostling in the breeze. Some of the paper wrappings seem to be moving too much for it just to be the wind though, Harry concludes, and wonders if it’s some sort of stray cat or animal, they are near the moorlands up here.

He stealthily, gingerly, steps forward towards the point of disturbance, hand still at the end of his sleeve, fingers just brushing against the polished grain of his wand. He makes it about a metre away when a minacious growl resounds from behind the stationary bins, and Harry feels it echo in his chest as his breathing stutters, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end. Debating whether or not to retreat, to go retrieve help, Harry stays paused with his hand curling around his wand handle as the overturned bin is suddenly shoved to one side.

“Shit,” Harry breathes, gaze locking with two crimson eyes. His palms begin to sweat and his hold on his wand tightens until he hears a squeak of his skin pulling taut against the wood.

The beast, dog, creature—Harry’s isn’t too sure what it is yet as it’s a lot bigger than any dog Harry’s ever seen, even if it does resemble one—lets out a loud warning snarl, saliva dripping steadily from it’s open jaw as it bares it’s teeth, long, serrated claws digging into the stone cobbles beneath it’s feet, and Harry prepares to pull his wand out from it’s confinement.

The thing—creature—must have sussed out Harry’s next move as as soon as Harry’s hand moves, it barrels passed him, taking out his right leg and knocking him to the pavement with a grunted yelp of surprise.

With a curse, Harry scrambles to his feet and sets chase, yanking his wand free with a vicious tug but unsure how to proceed as his mind is still catching up with his body. He fires a blind stunner (something safe), and misses, the beast dodging from side to side as it dashes down Church Street towards the Abbey steps, almost as though it knows that Harry is firing after it.

Heavy footfalls echo off of the surrounding buildings with booming intensity and a resounding clap as the soles of Harry’s shoes slap against the pavement, his breathing raggedy and deep as he pushes his body to it’s limit in order to keep up. He fires another stunner, zinging it through the air with a swipe of his arm, only for it to fizzle in the darkness as he fails to make impact.

The beast all but throws itself around the tight bend at the end of the narrow street, belting for the steps in a scramble of scratching claws and powerful legs, and Harry grits his teeth, pushing himself even harder, his muscles burning already from exertion and his lungs screaming at him to stop, to slow down, that they can’t handle the pressure, and by the time he’s taking the large steps in wide, gruelling strides, he’s seeing dots around the corners of his vision and sweat is literally pouring out of him, dampening his shirt collar and underarms, his back and even his legs so that his jeans are pulling roughly against his slick skin.

He’s half way up the ninety-nine steps when the dog-like-thing has already made it and disappears in a flurry of black fur and ruby eyes amongst the gravestones. “Fuck,” Harry curses as he keeps his sight on the top of the steps, looking for shadows, lumps, anything, and berates himself for lacking in the physical side of his training these past few weeks.

Near the hill top, Harry flings himself up the last few steps, scanning the immediate area for movement, pausing with his wand arm ready. There aren’t as many lamps up here and the air is harsher due to no obstructions from the sea. It’s eerie and dark, and Harry would almost swear blind that he can hear the haggard gravestones swaying and grinding in the punishing wind, a subtle scrapping of stone against stone and stone along earth.

Harry is out of breath, so much so that’s he’s panting and almost frothing at the mouth. He can hear his own breathing strident in his own ears, as though his body is trying to pull in oxygen through them now that he’s shut his mouth in a defiant plea for quiet. It’s making it difficult to listen for any telltale movements, but he can’t seem to stop himself; his body’s need to breathe greatly outweighs his desire to be silent, to hunt.

His chest hurts with every constriction of inhale and feels like he’s drunk liquid fire with every ex. He feels shaky, unhinged and grated, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. Because he knows that thing is still here, even if he can’t see or hear it, he feels it. It’s here, somewhere. Harry just isn’t sure where.

He takes an apprehensive step forward onto the grass verge, the toe of his shoe lightly kicking a flat tomb stone he didn’t notice laid out on the ground, mostly buried in the soil and covered by wild grass. He glances down briefly so he can sidestep it clearly without stumbling.

Then it hits him—square in his ribs, so violently that he smashes into the ground with a painful bang, his back coming down hard on the overturned gravestone so that all breath leaves his already abused lungs at once. The thing towers over him, dipping it’s head to growl directly into his face, a warning snarl that Harry doesn’t trust entirely, and he wrestles his free hands to find purchase around the thing’s thick neck, fingernails digging into fatty flesh and clutching onto clumped, soiled fur, as he tries desperately, in vain, to push the thing away.

Harry struggles beneath it for what feels like hours but what is probably mere seconds, shoving and pulling the thing to one side so he has room to slip out, escape. He’s lifted his head away from the cold ground, using his bruised back and torso muscles to grapple with everything he has. Shoving, pushing, pulling, twisting. The beast seems to have grown impatient, however, and it snaps dangerously at Harry’s face, causing him to wrench his head back from the dripping jaws and yellowed teeth, accidentally slamming it into the stone he’s been made to lay upon. His fringe flies up and off of his face with the force of his jostle and, suddenly, the animal’s ferocity intensifies. It rears up somewhat, releasing an alarming howl before it dives back in, red eyes manic and indignant as they bead hateful into what Harry thinks is his soul, chest vibrating with an ungodly snarl as powerful jaws aim for his neck, his jugular, Harry realises with overdue panic.

Harry shoves with every ounce of energy he has left, kicking his legs up to knee the thing futilely in the side—mainly to avoid the razor like claws scrambling at his sides and bounding around in a frantic attempt to maim him.

“Ahh!” Harry screams, wriggling into position as he manages to get his feet propped up underneath the writhing thing, knees in his chest. He gives an almighty shove, putting the brunt of it into his thighs, and finally knocks the beast off balance enough to free his body and reach out for his thrown wand. He attempts to rise, wrestling again with the returned beast’s head—which is now more difficult with the wand in his hand, and he can’t angle the wand towards the thing either without letting go. So, with no other options left, he sends out a distress spark and prays to Godric Gryffindor that one of his team sees it before the Muggles do.

Within minutes Harry hears the comforting sounds of rhythmic running, clap clap clap against the stone steps below, shouts and calls of his name as the footfalls grow nearer, louder, Dean’s unmistakeable bellow reverberating all the way up here where it is caught in the wind and lost in the crash of a wave into the cliff. In his short relief, Harry’s grip on the beast falters for just a moment, but it’s enough, all it’s needs for it the wrestle free and retreat. Harry tries, unsuccessfully, to grab a back leg, fires another poorly aimed stunner and expects the animal to keep on running. Strange, however, that it doubles back towards him, picking up speed as it’s blood gem eyes flash something fierce.

Harry gathers to his feet, standing loose but firm, prepares for impact. Mercilessly, he is thrust backwards and thrown into a thick, stone crucifix, his head colliding into the Celtic band work as something cracks within his chest. His vision swims, pain resonating through his chest, his back, wrenching a startled scream of pain as he slumps down the rough stone. The last thing he sees before passing out completely is Zabini’s shocked and worried face staring down at him.

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve made it to the end, Thank you!
> 
> And, Kudos is always appreciated x
> 
> Much love!


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